A Long and Weary Way
by Canafinwe
Summary: After fifteen years of fruitlessly searching for the creature called Gollum, Gandalf forsook the hunt. Though Aragorn persevered for a time, tracking his quarry on the marches of Mordor, he too despaired at last and began his homeward journey...
1. Wasted Years

_Note: Title from "The Mewlips", __The Adventures of Tom Bombadil__; J.R.R. Tolkien._

**Chapter I: Wasted Years**

The afternoon sun was not especially warm, but it was kind, bathing the dappled glade in a gentle golden glow. Huddled in a patch of sunlight, Aragorn son of Arathorn sat swathed in Gandalf's cloak. His own garments were scattered about, draped over stones and hanging from branches in the hope that they would dry sufficiently by morning that the mud could be beaten out of them. The wizard himself was gathering kindling, having declared, quite rightly, that the cloak and tunic had no chance of drying unassisted. He had added that the temperature would surely drop precipitously after sundown, and he did not fancy hauling a frozen corpse hundreds of miles to Rivendell.

Aragorn was tired of watching his friend work, and so he stared at his bare feet where they poked out from under the tent of grey wool. He wiggled the toes of his left, disturbing the dry dusting of fallen leaves. The cool air felt soothing around appendages ordinarily entombed in layer upon layer of cloth and leather. He stared with empty eyes at the blackened nail of his right great toe, wondering absently how and when he had managed to injure it thus. There was a thick, venerable callous at the base of the toe: he had had that for as long as he could recall. His eyes followed a long, curling scar that wrapped around the top of his foot. It was a memento of his last foray into the shadows of the East. Now, as their search wore on, it was growing increasingly probable that he would once more be walking into darkness and peril. At least this time he would not go alone.

'You ought to do something about your hair,' Gandalf remarked, depositing an armload of fuel on the ground and easing himself onto a nearby stone. 'You look like a drowned cat.'

'Thank you. You're very kind.' Aragorn rounded his shoulders as a tickling gust of wind sent a chill through his trunk. 'Perhaps next time you would prefer to search the wetlands whilst I take the high ground.'

'Next time...' Gandalf muttered dourly, busying himself with scraping out a hollow to vent the fire. 'Did you find anything at all?'

Aragorn shook his head, and the straggling tangles of grimy hair tugged at his neck. 'There was an island of shale in the midst of the mire, which struck me as a perfect hiding-place, but if ever he was there he abandoned it long ago. There were pits in the loam as if something had once rooted there for grubs, but they might just as easily have been the work of an animal: the rains of at least two seasons have worn them smooth. I saw nothing else: no sign of shelter, no bones or offal or any hint of habitation.'

'And for that you went crawling through miles of swamp muck?' said Gandalf. He picked up one of Aragorn's cast-off boots and studied the shower of grimy water that fell from it. The sight seemed to fill him with anger. He dropped the boot and set about wrathfully laying the framework of his fire.

'Were your efforts at all fruitful?' Aragorn asked warily, cautious of his friend's formidable temper, but needing a reply despite the knowledge that it would not be comforting.

'No!' Gandalf slammed his fist against his knee and his head bolted forward. His shoulders heaved in a sharp exhalation of fury. 'No,' he grunted, kneading his temple with the knuckles of his left hand. 'Nothing. I searched every cave and cranny that I could find: there are no signs of the hateful creature.'

Aragorn tugged the cloak more snugly about his shoulders. 'It was a thin hope,' he reasoned. 'We had only a rumour, a disjointed tale of some shadow in these hills. After all the false trails we have followed it was perhaps ridiculous to anticipate any other result.'

Gandalf snorted and set to work with his flint and steel. He worked with such vigour that the sparks flew in every direction.

'You will never catch a light like that,' said Aragorn, somewhat shocked at his own bravado. Ordinarily it was most unwise to press Gandalf when he was this enraged, but the frustration was only natural – and indeed Aragorn could not help but share it. It would be better for them both if the wizard released some of it now, and though Aragorn would have preferred to do the baiting when fully clad and well-armed, he reminded himself that he was not afraid of his friend. Not terribly afraid, anyhow.

'Very well: you do it!' Gandalf snapped, flinging the flint. Aragorn closed his eyes, flinching reflexively as it glanced sharply off of his shin. He favoured his friend with a long, level look. Gandalf ground his teeth and hoisted himself onto his feet, stomping over to collect his tool. 'Never mind. Sit there and try to dry out. And keep your arms covered. The last thing we need is for you to take sick from the chill.'

'I am not so cold as all that,' Aragron assured him. 'Now that I'm out of those wet things I feel like a new man.'

Gandalf scowled blackly at him. 'Are you truly so unaffected, or are you trying to anger me?' he demanded.

'Why should I be affected?' Aragorn asked, moving further into danger. 'It is only a little mud.'

'Only a little mud, bah!' the wizard grunted. 'Elrond himself would not have recognized you.'

Aragorn shrugged his shoulders and the borrowed cloak tugged at his knees. 'I have wallowed in worse,' he said simply.

Gandalf cast him another withering glare and turned his attention back to the fire, feeding his sparks first with dry grass, then with leaves, and at last with small sticks of kindling. When the first branch began to catch he sat back with a disgruntled huff. 'There,' he said grimly. 'If it brings goblin-hordes down upon us, then so be it.'

It seemed that the fit of choler had passed, and so Aragorn attempted to ease the last of the tension. 'Had I known you would insist upon a fire, I should have taken the time to snare us something fresh for supper,' he said by way of conversation. 'Our stores are running low.'

Gandalf reached for his pack and rummaged inside. 'Our stores are all but depleted,' he corrected heavily. 'Unless you are carrying some secret cache about which I know nothing.'

Aragorn shook his head. 'It seems, then, that I ought to hunt after all,' he said, shifting to get his legs under him. He was about to rise when Gandalf fixed him with a most imperious glower. The Ranger affected an expression of injured innocence. 'Unless you wish to starve,' he offered.

'If there is any hunting to be done, I will do it,' Gandalf told him.

'It would take you twice as long as it will take me,' Aragorn argued, trying for levity but falling short of the mark; 'and like as not you would return with inferior game.'

'So instead you will go charging off into the underbrush of Harondor – wearing what, precisely? Sodden body linen and an impudent grin? Sit still, keep near the fire—'

'And guard my clothes,' Aragorn said with a cynical curl of his lip. Any attempt to lighten the mood was forgotten, and he bit back irately in response to Gandalf's obdurate refusal to shake off his gloominess. His patience, too, was worn thin, and he could not endure this unwonted condescension. 'Shall I say meekly "yes, master", and do as I am told? I am not your pupil any longer, Gandalf the Grey, and it behoves you not to treat me as such.'

'And it behoves you to show some measure of common sense!' the wizard snapped. 'Swimming through a mire to explore a deserted isle in its midst, when in all probability the creature was never there—'

'We do not know that!' Aragorn exclaimed, his own anger mounting. 'All of our intelligence indicates that he dwelt long in these lands, and I have searched hundreds of such places these last years! We agreed to part company to look for him, and look I did. If you think me so inept then I suggest you find some other unfortunate to accompany you on your endless quest!'

'Do not forget that it was you, O mighty huntsman, who proposed this search in the first place!' barked Gandalf. 'Fifteen years we have laboured, and for naught! Where was the doughty captain of the Rangers when I had need of him? Where were his skills in tracking and in the chase where this quest is concerned? How came you to fail me in my hour of need? I am well-equipped to accomplish nothing, without any assistance from you!'

Aragorn's eyes widened and his jaw grew slack. One foot slipped against the leaves and his knee fell to earth as the ankle curled behind its mate. He stared at his friend, utterly unable to speak.

When the expected rebuttal did not come, Gandalf seemed to return to his senses. A look of profound weariness swelled forward to quench the fire in his eyes. 'I am sorry,' he murmured. 'Those words were undeserved.'

'Not entirely,' Aragorn said softly. 'I have felt keenly that failure. I admit that I had hoped that these last whispers might bear fruit. Now that it is plain they will not, it seems we are swiftly running out of places to look.'

'We will never find the creature,' Gandalf snarled bleakly. 'It has been too long; he has roamed too far. Mayhap he is deep in the South. Mayhap he is dead. Mayhap he was never here at all.'

'He was here,' Aragorn argued. His shoulders slumped wearily. 'Long ago.'

Gandalf bowed over his lap and buried his head in his hands. Silence enveloped the glade. Aragorn waited, but he could feel the despair oozing like a poison from his friend. The sunlight seemed to dim, and the air grew cold – too cold for these distant southern lands. He hitched the cloak around his arms and hugged the garment to his body as he rose. On bare feet he padded towards his friend and knelt, careful to keep the cloth secured around him. He pressed his shoulder bracingly against Gandalf's.

'We will find him,' he whispered. 'We must.'

A desolate sound issued from Gandalf's throat and he shook his head, rolling it from side to side against his palms. 'No. We will not. And we will never learn the truth.'

Aragorn closed his eyes. He did not wish to say it, but they were swiftly running out of options. 'We need to head into the mountains,' he ventured, glancing up. Though the trees obscured them from view, he could almost feel the dark oppression of the Ephel Dûath where they loomed behind the hills. 'He dwelt long beneath the Hithaeglir. We have already sought him in the wet places where food is plentiful. If he took shelter anywhere else, it would be in the mountains.'

Gandalf raised his head, leaning to his right as he turned to stare at Aragorn. His eyes were inscrutable. Slowly he shook his head from side to side. Then he launched himself to his feet and strode over to the tree from which the Ranger's cloak was hanging. He plucked it up between finger and thumb and moved to the next tree to collect his friend's cote. Aragorn watched as his friend spread the garments before the fire.

'I am going to find us something to eat,' Gandalf rumbled, glaring through slitted eyes. He wrested Aragorn's knife from its mud-caked sheath and cast it on the ground beside the Ranger. 'Stay by the fire and watch your back.'

Aragorn nodded wordlessly, watching as his friend disappeared amid the twisted trees. Left alone and freed at least for a little while of the burden of being the one who had not yet lost hope, he let his arms fall limply into his lap. The cloak slipped from his shoulders, but he did not care.

Gandalf was right. The trail was too cold. They had failed. _He_ had failed. They would never learn how Gollum had come by Bilbo's ring, nor how long he had possessed it. They had no hope of discovering whether the trinket that the hobbit had brought home from his adventure was the Ring that Sauron sought, or whether it was merely some trifle; some simple ring of invisibility, perhaps, wrought by Celebrimbor's folk as a prelude to their greater works. For fifteen years, the Dúnedain had kept a double watch upon the borders of the Shire at the expense of the rest of Eriador. Now it would be impossible to say whether that watch was necessary or no – until it was too late.

Aragorn was weary of the hunt. All his talent seemed to avail him nothing against the wiles of this creature he sought, and the bitterness of failure galled him. Yet to admit defeat after fifteen years of intermittent labour, after suffering countless privations and indignities in the name of this search, was something he could not endure. When Gandalf returned, he would make his friend see reason. They could not abandon the trail now, having come so far. It was not pride that drove him: his pride had slowly been leeched away by stagnant waters and bogs choked with filth and lonely journeys over vast empty lands. He was driven now only by desperation. There was too much at stake. They had to know what the creature knew. They had to find him. They had to have answers. Answers, at last, after a lifetime of riddles.

His arms were rough with gooseflesh, and the muscles of his bare back were contracting in the cool air of the gathering evening. With a heavy sigh that had little to do with his state of undress, Aragorn tugged Gandalf's cloak back up onto his shoulders and crept a little nearer to the fire, feeding it carefully with a fresh branch. Grimly he warmed himself, waiting for his comrade to return.

_lar_

When Gandalf came back at last, an hour after dark, he had only half a dozen parsnips and a fistful of discoloured dandelion greens to show for his lengthy absence. Aragorn did not ask whether he had failed to catch anything, or if he had simply declined to try. He meekly heated stones to boil water, and after scraping the parsnips cooked the roots until they were soft enough to afford a little comfort to their stomachs despite their marked lack of flavour. It was growing rather late in the year for dandelions, and there was little he could do to make the sharp-tasting leaves and stalks more palatable, but they ate them nonetheless. Gandalf said little as he finished his meal and went to turn Aragorn's clothing so that it might better dry. Then he busied himself sorting through his pack, and finally sat down once more with his pipe sheltered in one wizened fist.

They had expended their store of pipeweed many weeks before, but Gandalf set to work cleaning the bowl with a scrap of cloth. He seemed intently focused upon the exercise, and Aragorn was reluctant to interrupt him. He knew that his words would not be welcome, and he sat in silence for a long while, trying to work up the courage to speak.

'We cannot turn back,' he said when he had finally determined that he could delay no longer. 'We must know if...' Even under the open skies of Eriador they had never spoken of Bilbo's little ring aloud. In this dark and debatable land, it would be the pinnacle of folly to do so. He prevaricated with care. '... if our friend's bauble is of any value. We must learn what the creature knows: we must find him.'

Gandalf did not look up from his pipe. 'I tell you, I cannot go on. My patience is spent. We have no hope of success – and there may be another way.'

'Another way?' Aragorn's brow furrowed. If there was another way, why had they wasted fifteen years scouring the Wilderland in search of a being that did not want to be found?

The wizard exhaled heavily. 'You likely do not remember, for you were only a young man at the time, but the Council met for a final time in the year that Turgon of Gondor perished.'

'I remember,' Aragorn said. 'I rode as far as the last spur of the Misty Mountains in the escort of Elrond. I should have ridden to Isengard with him, but he felt it would be wiser for me to keep well away.' He glanced over his shoulder, listening for noises in the night. Lowering his voice he added, 'We have spoken also of that which was discussed at that meeting, but you told me that little of use was said.'

'Little indeed,' Gandalf snorted; 'and so viciously did we squabble that in the end it was agreed that unless direst need forced us we would not gather again, for it seemed that we could do no more than argue. Yet I said_ little_, not _nothing_, and as I walked tonight words half-forgotten returned to me. Saruman, well-versed in the lore of such trinkets, made mention of the humble appearance of the thing: simple, unadorned. "But its maker set marks upon it that the skilled, maybe, could still see and read," he said.'

'What manner of marks?' asked the Ranger, keen eyes fixed upon his friend.

'That he did not say. Yet his words came to me tonight as I was walking. If he had such knowledge, it must have a source. Long had the thing been lost by the time we came to these shores: he must have gained the information indirectly. The maker of course would know, but one other hand held the article; a hand that might have left written record of his observations.'

'Isildur.' It was less than a whisper, scarcely more than an unmistakable movement of the lips. Still, Gandalf heard him and nodded.

'And if such is the case, perhaps that account still exists in the vaults of lore in Minas Tirith, where he passed much of the last two years of his life,' he said. 'Saruman had easy access to those libraries in the years before a viper poisoned the Lord Ecthelion against him.'

'As I understand it, the Captain Thorongil did not so much counsel against Saruman as he advocated for you,' Aragorn said, covering with a wry smile the old ache that ignited in his breast at the mention of his liege-lord's name. Nearly forty years had passed since he had removed himself from the service of the Steward, and still he looked back with longing upon days as happy as any of his adult life, save only a few. 'And in his time in the Citadel Thorongil never came across any scrolls so ancient as that.'

'Ah, but Thorongil's leisure was limited, or so he gave me to understand,' Gandalf said, and his eyes glinted with something that was almost like amusement. 'And his access was curtailed by one perhaps jealous of his grasp of ancient tongues, and certainly suspicious of his interest in ancient history.'

'So it was,' murmured Aragorn, remembering. 'Then do you mean to abandon the hunt and travel to the White City to seek out this hypothetical account?'

'I have better hope of finding that than we have of finding Gollum in the mountains,' said Gandalf. 'Denethor will not deny me so easily as he denied Thorongil. And as a last resort I might yet travel to Orthanc and question Saruman, though with the danger to the Shire I am loath to trust anyone but you.'

'I am touched,' Aragorn said. 'Yet as Thorongil counselled Ecthelion, so I must counsel you: be wary of friendship with the White Wizard. He has less care for his allies than he has for himself, or he would never have taken Isengard for his own. He betrayed a dead friend: shall he consider living ones more sacred?'

Gandalf chuckled. 'That is an old song, my friend. Can it be that you resent the seneschals carving up the estate before the master's return?'

'The master is far afield, grubbing in the dirt for his night's sustenance and wading through mud nigh up to his neck,' Aragorn said sourly. 'He has forfeited the right to complain how his proxies discharge duties he has so long neglected.' He faltered a moment and then said softly, 'When you are in Minas Tirith, raise your head from the books occasionally to observe how her folk fare. I would be glad of tidings.'

'Come with me and see for yourself,' Gandalf said.

'You know that is impossible,' muttered Aragorn, casting his eyes away. He had not meant to give voice to his secret yearning. 'If I were recognized...'

'You have changed more than you think from the fair young captain who inspired love in the hearts of all who beheld him, and swayed the affections of the daughters of the lords of Gondor,' Gandalf said, smiling sadly to take the sting out of the cruel words. 'No one would know you now.'

'Denethor would know,' Aragorn said bleakly.

'I did not say "come with me to the Citadel",' Gandalf told him. 'I shall have enough difficulty with Denethor without antagonizing him openly. But there is no reason you could not find lodgings in the lower city and rest for a time while I laboured. There you might gather all the tidings you wished.'

The temptation was terrible. To walk in Gondor once more, to mingle with the people he loved little less than his folk in the North, to see the sunrise staining the White Tower in brilliant hues of carmine and orange... 'It is impossible,' Aragorn said with resolve that went no further than the surface. 'It is not my fate to take that road yet.'

'Then I free you from your promise,' Gandalf said gravely. 'Return to the North, my friend, where your kinsmen are waiting. Go to Rivendell, and walk beneath the beeches with your beloved. Bring tidings to Elrond of my failure, and tell him that I shall come when I may.'

Aragorn shook his head. He could not afford to think upon that enticement. His longing for the land of his lineage was nothing to the ache in his breast brought on by the merest mention of the land of his heart. How many countless months since he had turned upon the threshold of the Last Homely House to bid a chaste farewell to she in whom his spirit found its only rest? How many more before he might be free to return again?

'No,' he said. The denial was meant for himself, and not for Gandalf. 'No,' he repeated as he consciously laid by that desire. It was an unworthy thought. He had given his word to find the creature, and find him he would – or else while he had strength of will and breath in his body he would continue the search. He was not ready to admit his defeat. He was not yet so craven that he would cast away his oath, released or no. 'I shall continue the hunt for a time,' he said, trying to sound nonchalant and confident though he felt anything but. 'I want to go into the mountains. Perhaps I can find the trail again.'

Gandalf looked on him in wonder. 'Have you still hope?' he asked. 'After all this time, when my heart is filled with despair, can it be that you still believe success possible?'

Aragorn forced a wry smile to his lips. 'I can do nothing but hope,' he said. 'It is the name with which I was afflicted when still a toddling babe. It seems I cannot lightly lay it aside. It is more a curse than a blessing, I assure you. Besides, the days grow ever shorter. I do not relish the thought of walking North into winter lands wearing only my light summer garb. I will hunt for another season, at least. Who can say? Perhaps I shall find some success at last.'

'Perhaps,' Gandalf muttered bleakly. His voice held only bitterness.


	2. Separate Roads

**Chapter II: Separate Roads**

It was Aragorn's turn to take the first watch. There was a brief debate on the topic of Gandalf's cloak, and whether it ought to go with the sleeper or remain on the sentry, but in the end Aragorn had to admit that the only logical conclusion was that he should keep it for a while. Gandalf at least had his other garments to keep him warm, and settled as he was with his back to the glowing embers of the fire, he would be comfortable enough.

Once he deemed that his friend was asleep, Aragorn went to collect his linen and donned it swiftly, drawing the cloak on once more atop it. Both shirt and braies were still damp, but he did not fancy warding off the nightly hazards wearing naught but a wizard's mantle. He walked the perimeter of the glade for a while, working out some of the stiffness in legs unaccustomed to an afternoon of sitting idle, but his bare feet grew swiftly cold, and he made his way back to the fire. He snagged his pack as he went, and settled cross-legged opposite Gandalf's slumbering form.

He had taken the chance of losing his possessions when he had concealed them in a bramble-thicket before venturing into the mire, and the gamble had paid off. No living thing had tampered with his pack, and now it and the few useful things within were clean and dry when everything else he owned was wet and choked with muck. With his wooden mug and bowl there was a little food: dried fruit and a few strips of flavourless meat wrapped in a greasy square of linen. Several other strips of cloth that had once been white were all that remained of his spare shirt, worn until it began to disintegrate. He had a small coil of wire, a whetstone, his flint and steel, an old wooden comb missing most of its teeth, and a little penknife with an ornately carved handle. He set the blade and a small leather pouch aside, and from the very bottom of the pack he withdrew a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He unwrapped it and removed one of three short rushlights. A candle was a precious thing in the wilds, and he had hoarded these carefully. He knew he would need them if he ventured into the mountains, but there was an equally important task to see to tonight, and he had need of light.

He lit the brittle wick from the fire and let a little of the tallow drip onto a stone. It was poor-quality fat, and it smelled and sputtered, but soon the rushlight was standing melded to the rock, and he was able to set to work. The little pouch held a lump of beeswax and a spool of linen thread. Tucked carefully into the leather were three sewing needles. Selecting the largest, Aragorn cut a piece of thread and waxed it with care. Then he hauled his wet cote into his lap and began to inspect the damage.

He had scraped his back along the roots of a twisted old willow, and though he had only a long, stinging scratch on his flesh there was a large rent across the shoulders of his tunic. He had hoped that it would prove a simple repair, but luck was not with him: the cloth had torn against the grain, and the edges were fraying. He had no spare wool with which to make a patch, and so he carefully turned the garment inside out and set about brushing flakes of mud away from the tear.

Mending the damage was slow work, for he had to be careful not to fold more cloth into the join than was absolutely necessary. It was a fine line. Too little, and the repair would not hold. Too much, and the fit of the garment would be altered, perhaps to the point of impairing his shoulder motion and impeding his ability to climb, to reach, and to defend himself.

He had some skill with a needle, having learned quickly in his younger days that Rangers who did not wish to be dressed perpetually in rags had to learn how to preserve and refurbish their garments. His long, nimble fingers were well suited to such work, and over the years he had become adept enough for his purposes. A few lessons in cut and fit served him well, especially at times such as this, and for the most part his repairs held up to the rigours of his daily life. Still, this was a difficult tear, and the rushlight was almost burned away by the time he tied off the last thread.

There were several snags and smaller holes in the back of his shirt along the same path of damage, but those were not as concerning. If his outer garments remained whole and largely weatherproof, it did not matter if his underclothes were tattered. Anxious to conserve the last inches of candle, Aragorn snuffed the light and packed away his tools by the glow of the fire. He laid out his cote once more to dry, and turned his cloak again. As soon as he stopped moving, the claws of exhaustion sank deep into his heart and his head began to nod. By then, fortunately, it was well past the agreed-upon hour, and so he woke Gandalf and lay down for himself, still swathed in his friend's cloak.

'Sleep well,' Gandalf said grimly as he stretched his legs and ran a hand through his hair. 'It is quite likely that this will be your last chance to rest in safety for many weeks.'

Aragorn made no reply, for slumber had found him already.

_lar_

When Aragorn awoke with the dawn, he found Gandalf beating his cote with a heavy stick. Clods of dirt that the day before had been mud flew in every direction. The garment was draped over a convenient tree-branch, and the wizard seemed to be spending all of his frustration upon it. Aragorn watched in some amusement until at last the dust ceased to fly and Gandalf cast away the branch with a cathartic huff of breath. He turned, and scowled as he realized his efforts had not gone unnoticed.

Aragorn curled his lip. 'Do you feel better?' he asked dryly.

'As a matter of fact, I do,' the wizard grunted, stumping over to the fading fire and stirring it to hasten its death. 'The lower half of your cloak is still wet, but at least the hood and shoulders are dry. All the rest seems wearable.'

'I am pleased to hear it,' Aragorn said. He climbed to his feet and arched his back to banish the stiffness of sleeping on the hard earth. He removed his friend's cloak and held it out. 'Thank you for the loan of warmth.'

'Humph. Well, remember that if you get into such a state again I shan't be here to scare up food and fire for you,' grumbled Gandalf. 'You'll have to look out for yourself.'

'I will try to be more particular where I hunt,' Aragorn said, but fondly. He understood his friend's cantankerous over-protectiveness to be an apology, of sorts, for yesterday's harsh words. 'And you take care as well: you are strolling off into a danger that I dare not face. As I recall Denethor is uniquely unpleasant when disgruntled.'

'Then I shall be careful to keep him in a favourable mood.' Gandalf bent to pick up Aragorn's boots, now stiff and rigid after their wetting.

The Ranger sat to draw on his hose, then took the boots and wrestled them on. After a few minutes of good, hard walking they would be supple again, but at the moment they pinched rather unpleasantly. He stood and tied the points to his hose, then crossed the clearing to collect his cote. As he loosed the lacing and drew it over his head he held his breath, for a moment anxious, but it settled onto his shoulders with the familiar comfort of an old, well-worn garment. His darning had been successful.

'You're beginning to look almost respectable again,' Gandalf observed. 'Or what amongst your sort passes for respectable. Though there is still the matter of your hair...'

'There is little point in tending to it until I have an opportunity to wash,' Aragorn said. 'If you give me leave I will walk with you as far as the bridge, and attend to it there.'

'Gladly,' Gandalf said. He watched as Aragorn buckled his belt to the third-from-last notch, tucking the tail into a loose knot. He sheathed his long knife and adjusted the folds of his cote with care. 'Yes, almost respectable,' the wizard observed pensively.

Aragorn shook out his cloak, swung it around his shoulders and clasped it at the left shoulder with the silver star of the Dúnedain. Then with a practiced flick of his wrists he drew his hood over his filthy hair. It shadowed his face, leaving only the tip of his nose in the light.

'I take back what I said,' Gandalf remarked sardonically. 'There is nothing respectable about you: you're a rogue if ever I saw one.'

'Then you would be well-advised not to cross me,' said Aragorn, grinning as lazily as he could. He picked up his pack, which felt dishearteningly light, and then set about kicking away the last traces of their fire.

They set out as soon as the camp was concealed, walking in silence through the trees. Gandalf's despondency seemed to be leaching back, for his head was bowed and he leaned heavily upon his staff. Aragorn, determined not to show any signs of frustration or despair, walked on ahead, carefully picking a route that left as little sign of their passage as was possible.

After a couple of hours they halted and broke their fast. They ate sparingly and did not rest for long. It was past midday when they reached the crest of the river valley and descended towards the broad, coiling Poros.

Aragorn could not help staring to his right, where the high, craggy faces of the Mountains of Shadow loomed against a sordid grey sky. A chill settled upon his heart and dread clenched his innards. Once before he had ventured that way, passing over the ramparts of the Ephel Dûath into the poisoned wastes beyond. Memories assailed him, fast and thick. Orc-voices laughing. A cruel smile on a once-noble face made gaunt with hatred and malice. Slaves bent low beneath dancing black whips. Ash and stone and poisoned wells. And above it all, a fiery blight against the perpetual gloom that enveloped the Black Land, the burning heights of Orodrûin, belching filth and odious malevolence into the stagnant air...

Gentle fingers touched his elbow, and Aragorn turned, startled out of his reverie to find kind eyes upon him.

'It is not too late to reconsider,' Gandalf said softly. 'What is the chance that you will find him by venturing into the mountains?'

'Greater than the chance of finding him if I do not,' Aragorn answered, setting his jaw and sternly banishing his fear. 'I have chosen my course and I shall not waver. Now come: the river is calling to me, and I am aching to bathe.'

They made their way further into the valley, overgrown with wild, tangled trees and thick undergrowth. When at last they came near the water, it was plain that they had struck a true course: less than half a mile downstream they could see the old stone bridge at the Crossing of Poros. The two friends stood motionless for a moment, side by side with their backs to the Land of Shadow and their faces turned Westward, away from this empty and debatable land where they had hunted so long.

It was Aragorn who broke the silence this time.

'Many leagues lie between this place and the archives of Lord Denethor. You will accomplish nothing standing here and staring at the road you must take,' he said.

Gandalf exhaled in a heavy breath that was not quite a sigh. 'I would go with greater comfort if I did not feel that I was abandoning you to go into the darkness alone,' he confessed.

A small, cynical smile touched Aragorn's lips. 'I have done it before, and lived to make light of it. Fear not for me: I am too obstinate by far to perish in the mountains.'

'There are things far worse than death,' the wizard murmured blackly.

'And I count inaction among them,' rebutted the Ranger. 'Go. Seek the evidence of which you have spoken. I shall try to complete our other errand.'

Gandalf nodded, but still he hesitated. 'Do you wish me to linger a while, and stand guard while you bathe?'

'Lest I should drink the hot bathwater or spoil the towels or waste the fine perfumes?' Aragorn laughed. 'Nay, I am quite capable of washing myself without an attendant. Quickly, now: the daylight is wasting.'

The wizard took two steps in the direction of the bridge. Then he turned, and came back, gripping Aragorn's shoulders briefly before embracing him. 'Be careful,' he said as he drew back. 'I should hate to have to explain to your foster-brothers how I lost you.'

'Fear not for me,' said Aragorn. 'If I were you, I should spend these next days working out the words with which to woo Denethor.'

'Woo him?' Gandalf raised his eyebrows. 'I have no intention of wooing him. I shall merely storm the Citadel demanding access to his records. He may not like it, but he can hardly deny me courtesies extended to my colleagues.'

'I shall have to remember that the next time I do Saruman a favour,' Aragorn said. He squared his shoulders and dredged up a smile. 'Goodbye, my friend. May we both find that which we seek.'

'Ever the optimist,' Gandalf observed. 'How I admire the dauntless spirit of the young.'

'I am not so young anymore,' Aragorn said softly.

Their words were spent. They stood unmoving, looking into one another's eyes as if by doing so they could delay a little longer this parting. At last Aragorn cast his gaze away and Gandalf, thus freed, turned and strode down through the wild grasses towards the road. Aragorn lingered in the shelter of the trees, watching the grey figure grow smaller, hat and cloak melding into a single nebulous form as even colour grew indistinct with distance. Gandalf reached the riverbank and strode onto the bridge. In its middle he paused, turning once more to look back toward the Ranger, though from that distance it was doubtful that he could distinguish the cloaked figure from his woodland surroundings. He raised his hand in a final gesture of farewell, and then resumed his journey. He vanished swiftly into the undergrowth on the far side of Poros.

_lar_

Aragorn hung back in the shadows, scanning the sky and the river for any sign of watchers. Harondor was not precisely under the Enemy's influence, but his servants were at times seen in this land. At length, sensing no danger, he made his own way down to the water, walking along the pebbly shore in search of a suitably slow-running place where he might bathe without riskof being washed away. He found such a spot in the lee of a sandbar, and swiftly stripped off his clothes, spreading his cloak over a gorse bush in the hope that the sun might serve to dry it a little more completely. Then he walked quickly to the water's edge and waded out waist-deep.

The river was cool, and the clean water felt wonderful on his mud-stiffened skin. He drew a deep breath and ducked his head beneath the surface. The gentle current tugged at his hair, pulling it about his face like some strange water-weed. When his breath was spent, Aragorn stood, breaking through into the air with a great spray.

Grimy rivulets streamed down his face and chest and back as the first layer of mud ran out of his hair. He slipped beneath the water again, this time working his hands against the matted mass. He had no soap, so he waded back into the shallows to gather a fistful of coarse sand from the river's edge. With this he scrubbed his scalp, working loose the grime. He rinsed, and scrubbed again. Then he used the sand to rub down the rest of his body, chafing away dirt and odour and flakes of unshed skin. Again he washed his head, and this time clumps of snarled hair came away in his hands. He cast them into the water and watched the current draw them away.

Satisfied at last that he was as clean as he was likely to get, he hauled himself out of the water and shook his head to dry it as much as he could. After his cool ducking his skin shrivelled in the autumn air, but he donned his clothing quickly. The linen wicked the water away from his skin, and he was soon sitting comfortably on a broad stone next to the gorse bush that still held his cloak. He rummaged in his pack and brought out his comb, setting himself to the challenging task of restoring some semblance of order to his long, unruly hair.

After a great deal of tugging and a couple of sharp oaths, he was satisfied that Gandalf would have approved of his efforts. He put away the comb, gathered up the rest of his belongings, and drew on his cloak once more.

There were preparations to be made before he turned towards the mountains. Though he was a skilled woodsman and a gifted hunter, he could not charm roots from the bare rock, nor summon animals on the lifeless slopes. He had to gather food while he was still in fertile lands, and that would take up most, if not all, of the remaining daylight hours. Yet every hour spent seeking sustenance was one hour more to delay the dreaded journey, so he gladly set to work.

At this time of the year, the Wild was as bountiful as a traveller could wish. Aragorn quickly filled his bowl with fat raspberries, which he laid out upon stones to dry a little in the sun. There was a walnut tree close by the water, its black fruit scattered about its roots. He spent an hour shelling the nuts and laying aside the meat within. Though tubers and taproots were plentiful, these foods offered little nourishment in proportion to their weight, and so he took only a few for the sake of variety. Herbs he gathered; parsley, dandelion, purslane and sorrel for their value as foods, and nailwort to drive back hunger when his provisions grew scarce – as he knew they eventually would. He stumbled upon a wild apple tree, and filled what space remained in his pack with the hard little fruit.

By this time it was growing dark, so he returned to the place where his berries were drying. Some kind of bird had picked them over, but had evidently decided that the fresh ones on the bushes were preferable to those that had started to shrivel in the heat. For the most part the fruits of his labours were untouched. He wrapped the raspberries in a scrap of cloth and tucked them away with the rest.

Though night had fallen he was not yet ready to rest. The moon had yet to rise, but the river provided a path to guide him through the starlit night. Keeping the rushing water on his left hand, Aragorn moved swiftly but cautiously forward, listening warily to the nightly noises about him. Far away a scops-owl called, and Aragorn held his breath, waiting. Its mate answered, and he exhaled in relief. Owls crying for owls were nothing more than innocent birds going about their business in the dark. Owls that called with no answer might be shouting tidings to servants of the Enemy.

The hours crept by and his limbs grew heavy, but still he walked. Each sound in the darkness plucked at his ears, and he knew that he would not rest this night. He was uneasy on his own after so long in Gandalf's company, and cold fingers of apprehension seemed to creep about his heart. If he stopped, and laid aside the distracting challenge of moving without proper light, he would begin to brood on the dangers that lay ahead. He could ill afford that. He had long ago learned that imagined horrors were more terrible by far than most misfortunes that could meet a wanderer.

_Most_ misfortunes.

'That's quite enough,' he told himself sternly. 'There is no reason to believe the trail will lead that way. The creature has evaded capture for this long: clearly he is intelligent enough to steer well away from such places.'

Yet his heart felt heavy and the darkness was suddenly oppressive. Though the clean smells of the wilderness were all around him, a thin sulphurous reek clawed at his mind and seemed to sting his nostrils. Shuddering convulsively against unwanted memories, Aragorn focused his attention upon the rushing noises of Poros. The sound that a few moments ago had brought him comfort now seemed a reminder of the vastness of these empty lands and the countless leagues that lay between him and any friendly haven. He thought of Gandalf hastening Northwards, while he moved ever further into the East, and it seemed that he could feel the miles between them spread and lengthen with each long stride. A cold shiver ran up his spine as the loneliness of his position struck home for the first time today. He had staved off acceptance through industry, but now in the empty night he could not ignore the truth any longer.

He was alone.


	3. Into the Shadows

_Note: excerpt from 'The Lay of Leithian', __The Lays of Beleriand__, __The History of Middle-Earth__, __Part III__; J.R.R. Tolkien; edited by Christopher Tolkien._

**Chapter III: Into the Shadows**

It was the ninth day since he had left Gandalf at the Crossing of Poros, and Aragorn was already struggling to keep up hope. He had encountered no enemy, nor had he experienced any particularly extraordinary hardships, and yet he was tired, cross and discouraged. The one consolation was that there was no need to appear valiant or unaffected: there was no one to witness his black moods.

He was high amid the Ephel Dûath, scrambling along a scree slope ascending out of a barren valley where he had passed an uneasy night. The heels of his hands were raw from scraping along the rough rocks, and the strips of linen in which he had wrapped his palms and wrists were filthy and shredding swiftly away. His laden pack was heavy upon his back, and though he tried to convince himself that this was a factor in his favour, at the moment all that he cared for was the ache in his shoulders. He was further burdened by four long branches lashed across his back: two nights ago he had halted in a pine copse, and there he had tapped a tree for pitch and set about the smelly and unpleasant task of making torches. He would be glad of them when it came time to venture into caves or tunnels, but at present they were an unwanted load. The torches had further depleted his dwindling supply of spare cloth, and Aragorn was frantically hoping that he would not soon have need of bandages.

Nine days, and in all that time he had found nothing. He had had little chance of picking up a trail by striking a random point in the mountains, and yet he had stumbled upon signs by luck before now. There was no more that could be done: a lone man could not make a systematic search of a vast mountain range. All that he could do was to seek out likely places and hold out hope that his efforts might bear fruit.

As he slipped again, sliding back down the slope and losing several hard-won steps before he managed to dig in his right heel and arrest his descent, he reflected that it was the last part of that equation that was proving the most problematic. He looked up towards the cliff face and the narrow cleft that looked like a passageway of some sort, and gritted his teeth against the effort that it took to convince his heart that this goal was worth pursuing.

In the end he resumed his inelegant climb, less out of hope for what he might find and more out of the knowledge that to turn back now would mean spending another night in the gorge below. It was a barren place, with neither game nor any plant that he trusted as edible. Fortunately he was still well-provisioned. In the lower lands he had had some success with his hunting, catching rabbits or fat southern fowl by day and drying the leftover meat over his nightly fire on a grate made of green branches. It was only in the last few days that he had found himself pressed to eating from the stores he carried. He guessed that even bereft of other sources of sustenance he would have enough to bear him on for three healthy weeks or five frugal, provided that he ate the crabapples before they rotted.

Of greater concern was water. It took a great deal of water to maintain a decent pace on an incline, and in these mountains streams were few. Since he had been obliged to abandon the sources of Poros where they cut a treacherous cleft in the land, he had struggled to find clean sources. In the gully behind him there was only a stagnant mere that might have been the memory of a creek. Now it was shallow and foul-smelling, and it had provided him with murky, bitter water with which to slake his thirst and fill his bottles. He could only hope that it was not riddled with disease. If he pressed on, there was at least the chance of finding a fresh spring that might furnish him with safer drink.

The scree grew steeper: he was near the base of the cliffs now. Gravel slipped beneath his boots and his arms worked furiously to maintain his forward progress. He anchored himself against an outcropping of limestone and halted to catch his breath. His hands throbbed and he was beginning to feel rather overwhelmed. Aragorn stretched his fingers and rounded his back against the weight he carried. He groped for the bottle that hung at his hip, and took three mouthfuls of the unpleasant fluid within. His tongue protested, but his throat was glad of the wetness, and after a minute or two his head grew clearer. He cast his eyes towards his destination. He had only a few rangar more to travel, but here the scree was steep and loose. There were no fixed footholds that he could see, and if he kicked away too much of the debris, the floor of the cleft would prove beyond his reach in a second attempt.

Speed might serve him where careful planning could not. As a child he had taken it as a challenge to move as swiftly and as lightly as an Elf, and though he had never mastered the art of running over unbroken snow or dancing across a single line slung across a river, he could move with greater agility and speed than any other Man he had known. He marshalled his energies and steeled his nerve, then stood up with his feet still braced against the outcropping.

He launched forward, running five paces at a sharp angle before he pitched forward and his hands once more bit into the small, sharp stones. He clambered on, blindly groping ahead, moving too quickly to consider his actions. Suddenly the knuckles of his left hand were barked and torn against solid rock, and he reached up, fumbling for an even surface. He found it, and flung his right arm over its edge, then hauled himself forward as the support slipped from under his feet. He slithered onto the ledge, dragging torso and legs after his wildly working arms. For a moment he was afraid that he would slide back and tumble down the inconstant slope, but then his knee struck solid rock and he knew that he was safe.

He lay there for a minute, panting with exertion and relief. Then he picked himself up and rolled onto his side, leaning back against the rock wall to his left. He looked down at his arms, at the bits of shale imbedded in the cloth of his sleeves and the bright red gems of blood dotting the greyish grime that coated his hands and his wrists.

Closing his eyes, he drew in deep, bracing breaths. He was exhausted. This last was only one in a series of unwelcome exertions as he made his way to ever higher altitudes. Furthermore, he had not slept for more than a couple of hours at a stretch since leaving Gandalf. With the relative safety of Harondor behind him he could not afford to let down his guard and the smallest sound in the night awoke him with a start. Furthermore, dark dreams lingered on the edge of remembrance as his unconscious protested each step that brought him further into the sway of the Shadow. More than once he had roused himself drenched in perspiration and shaking with half-forgotten horrors.

Even the thought of such things was disheartening. Aragorn opened his eyes and began to unwind the ruined bands of linen about his hands. They were fit for nothing but tinder now: he shook them out and stowed them in the pouch at his belt. He took another mouthful of the unpleasant water, and surveyed his surroundings.

He was sitting in a narrow passage between two lofty cliffs. Far above he could see the sky, a gloomy gash of grey against the dark rock. The passage itself turned sharply a few feet away, and vanished around a corner. It was not a safe place to rest, for if something were to come around the bend he would find himself trapped with an enemy before and a nasty fall behind. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet, brushing grime from his legs and sleeves with hands made sticky by gently oozing blood. The scrapes wanted careful cleaning, but he was not sure that he trusted the water he carried. He would press on a little ways and hope for something better.

He drew his long knife. He regretted now his decision, made months before when he and Gandalf had departed from the North, not to carry a sword. Had he but thought, in his wildest imaginings, that he would be returning once more to these lands, he would have carried with him the keenest weapon the armouries of Imladris could provide. He put his back to the rock wall on the concave side of the turn, shuffling slowly to his left and ready at any moment to pivot to meet danger head-on. He braced himself as the next leg of the path came into view, his carefully shifting position revealing...

Nothing.

A breath he had not realized he was holding came out in a puff of heat. He shook his head in quiet disbelief. He was too skittish. In nine days, he had seen no sign of foes. He had spied no likely watchers. It was absurd to be so anxious. He would wear himself out with such vigilance.

Making a conscious effort to remain calm, Aragorn continued down the path. He remained wary, but strove to keep his circumspection within the bounds of sensible caution. His imagination was more highly developed than that of the average knight-errant, and he could not let it rule him. As his eyes shifted constantly to the left, to the right, skyward, forward, down, he tried to occupy his mind by running through the lays of old. He did not dare to sing aloud, but he played the words in his head. Unfortunately, all that sprung to mind was a snippet of the Lay of Leithian:

_A devil's laugh they ringing heard  
__within their pit: 'True, true the word  
__I hear you speak!' a voice then said.  
_'_T'were little loss if he were dead,  
__the outlaw mortal, but the king,  
__the Elf undying, many a thing  
__no Man could suffer may endure.  
__Perchance when what these walls immure  
__of dreadful anguish thy folk learn,  
__their king to ransom they will yearn,  
__with gold and gems and high hearts cowed;  
__or maybe Celegorm the proud  
__would deem a rival's prison cheap,  
__and crown and gold himself will keep.  
__Perchance the errand I shall know,  
__ere all is done, that ye did go.  
__The wolf is hungry, the hour is nigh;  
__no more need Beren wait to die..._

He brought himself up sharply, horrified by his lack of self-control. He tried to dredge up some more cheerful scrap of verse: a song in praise of Elbereth, a ballad of love, a fragment of hobbit doggerel, even, but his mind brought forth only chords of darkness and death: the dramatic climax of _The Fall of Gil-galad_; snatches of the _Noldolantë_; a lament for the fallen of the Gladden Fields...

'I know what is the matter with me,' he muttered, shuffling forward through the mounting dread in his heart. 'I need sleep.'

A man could only endure so long without submitting to a period of rest, and he had had none the night before, pacing to and fro in the bare valley and listening for spies. He quickened his pace, and as he walked he watched now not only for threats, but for some crevice in the rock where he might conceal himself and attempt to find some semblance of peaceful slumber.

He walked for an hour, or perhaps two. Time was difficult to measure in the indistinct gloom that hung low over the Ephel Dûath. On and on the path wound, turning now east, now south, but most often in a north-easterly direction that brought Aragorn little comfort. That the walls in places seemed strangely uniform, as if hewn long ago by pick and chisel, added to his mounting anxiety. If this had once been an orc-road, who was he to say it was not still in use? To be sure, he had seen no signs of other travellers, and orcs of all creatures left clear tokens of their passage, but his mistrustful mind could not disallow the possibility. His hand upon the hilt of his knife was slick with perspiration, the dirty abrasions stinging under the pressure, and his heart was hammering in his temples.

He had walked in these hills before, but then he had not been so haunted by darkness. Perhaps it was only his foreknowledge of what awaited him if he continued in this direction, but he half imagined that there was more to it than that. He had felt the malice of the Enemy in his heart before this, and now it almost seemed as if the ill will of Sauron was washing over this place, surging forth to dishearten any that dared to trespass on his fences.

With this thought came the irrepressible desire to hide, but there was nowhere to secret himself. Cowering under an outcropping of rock would not ease the shadow in his heart anyhow, Aragorn reasoned pragmatically. It was far better to press on, and to hope that he stumbled soon upon some place where he could stretch out his long body and rest.

Another mile slipped past, and he came to a place where the path broadened into a bowl, ringed about with boulders and bordered by sloping walls of rock. He hesitated cautiously before entering the open space, and even once he did he kept to the margins, scanning the scattered stones for signs of motion. He climbed upon a boulder, shoulder-high and flat-topped, and surveyed his surroundings from a greater height. Satisfied that there was no one hiding here, he set about exploring the perimeter of the broad space with greater vigour.

On the far side, close by the place where the path narrowed once more, he found a cave. The entrance was low, vanishing swiftly into darkness. Aragorn leaned an ear to the opening, listening with care. He heard nothing; no echo of movement, no whisper of breath. He picked up a small stone from next to his boot, and tossed it in. Almost immediately he heard it glancing off of a rock-face, but he was not satisfied. He eased his pack off of his shoulders and pulled out his flint and tinder and the spent rushlight by which he had darned his cote so many nights ago. Using the torn linen in his pouch for tinder, he lit the candle and held it in his left hand, while with his right he kept his knife at the ready.

He had only a few minutes of light, and so he moved forward quickly, bowing his head to allow entrance to the cave. Even past the mouth he could not stand upright. The cave was narrow, and not very deep: ten paces brought him to its back. There were no hidden niches or unseen corners, and he sought swiftly behind the few scattered stones for signs of habitation. Then he inspected the walls for any hint of a hidden door, laying aside his knife to knock upon the walls with a round, smooth rock. No echo answered wherever he struck, and the ceiling was unmarked save for a few small dripstones. Just as he was beginning to feel that this would be a safe place to hide, his rushlight dripped the last of its hot tallow over his fingers and he dropped it with a hiss of pain, shaking his hand to cool the fat before it could burn too deeply.

There was no helping the cleanness of his water now. Hastily he opened his bottle and poured the tepid fluid over the burn, cursing himself for his carelessness. He could not see where the stub of the candle had fallen, and he did not dare to grope about now, for fear of doing further damage to his hand. He moved to the entrance of the cave to collect his pack and the torches, and then retreated to the back of the shelter.

His hand was throbbing in a most annoying manner, but the pain had sharpened his senses and distracted him from the burden on his heart. He ignored the discomfort as he cleared a patch of ground with his foot, scraping aside stones and debris. Then he stretched out on the floor of the cave, drawing his cloak about him. With his back to the wall and his blade in his hand, he was as safe here as he could expect to be anywhere in these lands. His weariness was a dreadful burden. It was with a small thrill of gratitude that he laid it by for a while and slipped into cautious slumber.

_lar_

He awoke to the unexpected noise of voices, near at hand but oddly hollow-sounding.

'There's trouble down below,' the first voice said. 'I 'ear there won't be enough bread to go 'round, what with all the new boys coming up from the South, and the bother with the maggot-folk and all.'

'If they can't work so as they can feed us proper, I say we eat them instead, and have done!' a second voice put in.

'Just you try it, and see how quick we all starve. Sick slaves work harder'n dead slaves. 'Specially with a little tickle from a nice, nippy whip,' said a third.

Aragorn held his breath, not daring to stir even a hair's breadth from the position in which he lay. Slowly, warily, he opened his eyes, but he saw only blackness. Even the mouth of the cave was obscured in shadow. Night had fallen.

There was a sound of an iron-shod foot glancing off of stone, and the pitter-patter of scattered pebbles. 'Whipping 'em won't put food in our bellies, and you know they'll give preference to the regular regiments when it comes to rations. Have to keep 'em happy,' groused the first voice. 'Fighters sittin' idle are more dangerous than a little border-patrol.'

'So?' said Second Voice. 'We'll go down into the hills, catch us something tasty. There's Men in those lands. They make good eating.'

If there had been any doubt before, there was none now. Orcs. At least three, and from the sound of their voices they were outside the cave. Aragorn dared to raise himself on his left elbow, ignoring the protests from his burned hand. He flexed the fingers of his right around the hilt of his knife, and tried to pick out the mouth of the cave.

'Pah! Only if you can catch 'em,' said a deep, scornful fourth voice. '_Tarks_ aren't so easy to kill as ordinary men. They've got long swords and quick wits.'

Well, quick wits, anyhow, Aragorn thought. Though at the moment he would have given a great deal for a long sword as well.

'You know _they_ won't stand for us making trouble with the _tarks_.' Third Voice was the cautious one, probably smaller than the others and certainly cleverer. A captive would have to be careful of Third Voice, for he had his race's love of inflicting suffering, coupled with a malice and creativity beyond the scope of an average Uruk.

Aragorn chastised himself. He had no intention of being taken captive. If there were only four, then even armed only with a knife he stood a fighting chance – particularly as they did not know that he was here. With a little luck, he could come out of this unscathed.

Luck was not with him. A fifth voice cut in. '_They _don't like this. _They_ won't stand for that. I'm sick of hearing what _they_ want. Don't you City filth have any backbone?'

Aragorn nearly hissed with the other orcs at this show of temerity. Clearly Fifth Voice had no conception of what he was saying. When Third Voice had ventured his remark about conflict with the Rangers of Ithilien – for what other _tarks_ with long swords and quick wits were to be found anywhere near the Mountains of Shadow? – a cold dread had settled upon Aragorn's heart. He had not realized that he had strayed already so far North that he might hear tidings of '_them'_. The revelation filled him with terror that a band of five discontented orcs could never hope to match.

'Shut yer mouth, you fool!' hissed Second Voice, no longer quite so brazen. 'Even the stones have ears...'

With no concept of the time, and no idea how long he had slept, Aragorn could not accurately gauge his danger. If it was early in the night, the orcs would most likely move on, resuming their patrol. If dawn was near then they would need shelter, and he had seen no other hiding-place in the miles that he had covered.

Carefully, silently, he got his feet under him, and crept, hands grazing the ground, along the wall of the cave. He found the entrance, and retreated half a yard. He could see light now: the sickly glow of a dirty lantern. It illuminated the knobbly claw that held it, and its faint light made several pairs of red eyes shine like embers in the night. Aragorn counted. Two, four, six, eight... ten eyes. Five orcs: all had spoken. Their sizes and sorts could not be discerned, nor did he dare challenge five in the dark, in an open place, armed only with a knife.

They were a good distance away, near the far end of the open space. Their voices sounded hollow because of the way they reverberated off of the stone walls – not quite an echo, but a curious resonance in the cold mountain air.

They were quarrelling now, as orcs were wont to do. The topic of debate appeared to be the supremacy of those who answered to the guardians of the City over those who served only the Eye. It was an old argument, and not only among orcs. Aragorn had heard many variations upon it, and he knew – even if they did not – that they would not settle the question. It remained to be seen, however, whether they would grow incensed enough to draw blade against each other and thus solve his problem for him.

'Tower rats; what do you know? When war comes, you'll be the first to die. Our masters will see to it that we're kept for the important work, not thrust on the spears of the _tarks_ like a pig on a pike!' Second Voice baited.

'We'll be sent first because the Eye trusts us to make a proper job of it!' snapped Fifth Voice. The tension was palpable. Any moment now they would come to blows. Fifth Voice was outnumbered, but if he could take out even one of his rivals before the others cut him down, only three would remain to be dispatched with the Ranger's knife. 'You cowards would only—'

'That's enough talk! We've got miles to cover 'til we reach the edge, and then we'll need to get back here before sunup! Quit yer squabbling and let's go!'

Silently, Aragorn cursed Third Voice and his level-headedness. The others seemed to pause, considering the wily orc's words. First Voice grunted appreciatively. 'Let's go, lads,' he said. 'No sense arguing while there's work to be done.'

The lantern disappeared behind a burly body and the noise of iron-shod feet moved off towards the passageway that led back in the direction from whence Aragorn had come. The Ranger's mind raced.

If they were going all the way back to the edge – which he presumed was a reference to the mouth of the path where he had scrambled up off of the scree – then there must be some hours left until dawn. He could fly from this place, up the other path, and be far away before sunlight stopped these orcs. Yet he knew not what lay ahead, and if these five were a patrol then there surely was a camp from whence they had come, and quite likely a captain and other Uruks as well. To run blind into a crowd of enemies was the height of folly. Yet if he lingered here and they returned, he had little hope of slaying them all where they might so easily surround him.

If he followed them, on the other hand... He remembered the bend in the path. If they were foolish enough to wander together to the edge, which seemed not unlikely, then he would have them trapped. In that narrow corridor no more than two could stand abreast, and surely he could manage two at a time. Caught between his knife and the long tumble down the slope, he would have them in an excellent position. Of course, it would mean losing all of the distance he had covered today, but he would be able to press on into the unfamiliar territory in the safety of daylight.

It seemed the most logical course of action. Hastily Aragorn caught up his pack, but he left the torches behind. They were unnecessarily cumbersome, and if all went well he could return for them. If all did not go well, a dead man had no need of light.

As silent as the shadows he ran across the bowl. It took a little fumbling against the rock wall to find the place where the path narrowed, but soon he was striding noiselessly through the dark, his quick ears catching the noise of orc-feet and the continued squabbling. Keeping a judicious distance lest they pick up his scent, he followed his quarry.


	4. Mercy in Mordor

_Note: Special thanks to the good folks at Geobra Brandstätter, whose handiwork proved indispensible in the blocking of this chapter._

**Chapter IV: Mercy in Mordor**

Aragorn moved swiftly, his left shoulder brushing against the rock wall at intervals to keep him oriented. This was the worst part of the manoeuvre, or at least he sincerely hoped that it was: the mounting anticipation, the way that the mind ran through every possible scenario and lighted upon all the bleakest outcomes. He focused his attention on the moment, on the sound of the orcs far ahead, on the feel of his blade – his woefully inadequate blade – in his hand. In battle there was no time to dwell upon possibilities, or even probabilities. One had to exist in and for the moment, with the senses and the mind focused only upon what was happening in the immediate present.

The orcs kept up a great pace, and Aragorn followed, fleet and sure. He had been about such business for three score years and ten, but somehow he never quite lost the thrill of primal fear that preceded such conflict. Over the long years he had learned how to master it and to channel its energy into his sword-arm.

He halted his pursuit as he realized that he was gaining on the orcs. He stood unmoving, head cocked to one side as he listened. Over their grating voices he could hear the whistling of free air against the stone, and the orcs' words did not reverberate as they had before. They had reached the end of the passageway.

'There: I told you we wouldn't find anything,' Fifth Voice snarled. 'Waste of time.'

'Can't trust nobody these days,' grumbled First Voice. 'Watchers ain't what they once was.'

Aragorn's teeth gritted involuntarily against one another. So his passage had been marked after all. He had seen no strange birds, nor any sign of spies, since leaving the fertile lands behind. Could it be that in his weariness he had missed them, or was the Enemy now using some unseen sentry to guard his borders?

'Here, bring that light closer!' snapped Third Voice. Apparently his compatriot did not reply, for he repeated again, more viciously; 'Bring it closer!'

'What, fancy yerself a tracker?' Second Voice sneered. 'P'raps they're wastin' your talents, setting you to prowl in the hills with the likes of us. P'raps you ought to be back in the valley, hunting _tark_. P'raps they ought to send you to Nûrnen to chase down runaways.'

'Don't take a tracker to see this,' said Third Voice. 'Look: blood. Something climbed up here, all right.'

The surge of vindication that his judgments on the third orc were correct was swiftly overridden by self-castigation. How had he been so careless as to leave behind such obvious traces? His abraded hands must have left all manner of residue upon the stones as he scrambled up onto the path. Aragorn shook his head grimly. The stakes of the impending assault were higher now. He could ill-afford to alert the whole of Sauron's border-watch to his presence in these mountains. Until a moment ago, a silent withdrawal had at least been one of his options. Now, he had no choice but to fight.

'So the thievin' water-rat's back, then,' groused Fifth Voice. 'That's just what we need.'

'No,' Fourth Voice argued. 'Gimme that rock.' There was an unpleasant slurping sound, and the orc smacked his lips. 'It's man-blood. Whatever climbed up here, it wasn't the little sneak.'

'Man-blood, eh?' Suddenly Second Voice sounded quite gleeful. 'Well, well. That might solve our bread problem nicely. Who needs maggot-food when you can taste a nice, tender bit of man-flesh?'

Aragorn quite fancied stepping forward to offer the opinion that it would in fact be a lean and stringy bit of man-flesh, supposing they could get past the man's teeth and claws, but however perfect the opportunity, he could not strike yet. He wanted to hear what the orcs might say next. Thieving water rat? Little sneak? Could it be that fortune had at last smiled upon him, and offered him news of his quarry?

Third Voice cut in. 'If it's a man, where did it go? We haven't seen any signs of men about, not 'til this minute. Can't have loose men running 'round.'

Abruptly they were all squabbling again, debating whether they could have loose men running around after all, or how old the blood was and were they sure it was man-blood, or whether they oughtn't just turn around and go back. Not a word was uttered that Aragorn wanted to hear.

Then Fourth Voice growled, 'I've 'ad enough of this. There ain't many hours left 'til sunup. It's time to start back.'

The Ranger swiftly slipped his pack from his back, setting it silently upon the ground. It would not do to be hampered with such a weight: he had little enough in his favour as it was. He flattened himself against the left-hand wall in the convex of the turn – the very place where he had expected a foe to be lurking when he had taken this path himself.

The orc did not look for danger. He came stumping around the bend, out of sight of his fellows. Quick as a stinging insect Aragorn struck. His knife found its home between chin and coarse mail, severing the vocal chords before the orc could cry out, and cutting a clean path to the jugular vein and the thick, ropey carotid beneath. Hot blood flooded forth, running over the knife and down onto Aragorn's hands. With a shudder of revulsion he withdrew his blade and thrust his shoulder against the weight of the dying orc, bending his knees to ease the carcass to the ground as the heart sent its last spurting fountains of gore from the severed artery. Despite his best efforts the orc's mail rasped as it struck the ground.

'Eh, what's that?' demanded First Voice harshly. 'Did you 'ear something?'

'Nothing,' Fifth Voice growled. 'Let's go.'

'Wait—' said Third Voice, but the others did not listen. Aragorn leapt nimbly backward over the body of the fallen orc as lumbering footsteps drew nearer. His eyes strained into the gloom – an effort that proved unnecessary as the sickly lantern-light glinted off the rock wall, casting an immense orc-shadow high above his head. He withdrew another pace into the darkness behind.

Fifth Voice was drawing nearer. 'That's the trouble with you City filth: you're cowards. Why, I wouldn't trust you in a tight place if I had orders straight from Lugbûrz to—'

He cut off his tirade with a sharp oath as he rounded the corner, a looming black mass in the approaching glow of the lamp behind him. There was a rasping noise as he moved to draw his scimitar, but before he could complete the motion Aragorn lurched forward and tried to intercept the clawlike hand with his knife. Steel met bone, and red eyes locked with grey.

'_Tark!_' the Uruk shrieked, raising the alarm. His left hand flew up behind his head, and a long blade appeared. Aragorn thrust up his knife, his off-hand flying up to brace his right as it bore the full force of the orc's blow. The shock of impact radiated down into his elbows. As his opponent recovered, he was obliged to dance to his left to avoid an eviscerating swipe from the saw-toothed blade.

He could not lose his ground. For one there was the cliff, his one tactical advantage. If he drew back too far, he would forfeit any benefit. For another, he realized as he almost stumbled over a leaden leg, there was the corpse beneath his feet. He could not mind his hands, his head, his legs, and a fallen body all at once, in the dark with the lantern-light blinding him. Screwing his eyelids into slits against the sudden onset of brightness, he dropped his left shoulder and launched himself against the orc's broad barrel of a chest.

Fifth Voice let out an enormous expulsion of foul air as he overbalanced, crashing against the orc behind him. For a moment there was chaos, and in that moment Aragorn pressed forward, regaining the distance he had forfeited. He tried again to strike, but this time the orc deflected his blow, even as the hob-nailed boots scrabbled to regain their footing.

The orc behind had dropped the lantern, and it was lying on its side now, sputtering and wavering. Aragorn ducked under another swipe of the serrated blade and kicked the lantern. It shattered against the stone, and the sour-smelling fuel spilled out, flaming briefly across the ground before plunging them all into darkness.

It took only a moment for Aragorn's squinting eyes to relax and readjust, but the orcs had been in the light longer than he, and despite their naturally superior vision in the darkness, they were briefly stricken blind. In that moment his knife found another throat, and the large orc from the Barad-dûr tumbled to earth.

The one who had been holding the lantern had his sabre drawn, and Aragorn was obliged to drop to one knee to avoid decapitation. He scuttled forward as the orc drew back and struck again. Steel rang against stone where his left ankle had been a moment before.

A booted foot caught him on the left flank. He rolled into the pain instead of away, tripping up the driving boot and thrusting upward against his assailant. The knife sunk deep into something soft and fleshy, and the orc roared in pain. Aragorn scrambled to his feet, swaying a little as he tried to regain his bearings. The orc with the sabre was behind him now, and the wounded one before him. He could hear the whistle of a blade in the air, and he crouched instinctively. There was a noise of rending bone and the scimitar sunk into the rock wall, having smitten off the head of the other orc.

Three were dead and therefore two remained, but Aragorn was only aware of the erstwhile lantern-bearer who had wrenched his sword free from the stone. Any effort to parry the heavy blade with his knife would likely break the Ranger's arm, and so he dropped his Elven-wrought steel and groped frenetically for some longer and weightier weapon amid the strewn bodies. His hands closed on a hilt wrapped in hair, but though he tugged with all his strength it would not come free. The weight of its fallen owner had pinned the scimitar in its sheath.

A half-demented bellow of rage gave warning that the orc was going to strike again. Aragorn flung himself backward, a loose stone driving painfully against his right kidney as he landed flat upon his back. A spray of blood misted his garments and his face as the sabre sank into the body he had been attempting to loot. Heart hammering in his breast, Aragorn somehow managed to roll onto his knees and launch to his feet. All hope of finding his knife again seemed lost, and he cursed his stupidity for casting away his only weapon without surety of gaining another. Unarmed and alone in the darkness, with an enraged assailant swinging blindly for him, he did the one thing that he still could.

He ran.

Hoping frantically that he was moving in the right direction, Aragorn fled. He had not gone more than six strides when he struck something hard and heavy that drove the wind momentarily from his chest. There was a howl of rage and alarm as Aragorn's momentum drove both himself and the object into which he had collided to earth. He landed atop the heavy mass, and long, nimble claws began to paw at the tender flesh under his arm and to tear at his hair. He had found the fifth orc.

The lantern-bearer was fast approaching, his hob-nails ringing against the stone. Aragorn threw both of his arms around the writhing orc beneath him in a frantic parody of an embrace, and with all the force in his long legs he rolled the both of them to the right, shifting so that their bodies fell almost perpendicular to the walls of the passage. His knees were bent at an excruciating angle in order to achieve this position, and it took every shred of strength to keep the orc from bucking him off.

Then a foot blasted into his ribs, and all memory of breath was driven forth. For an instant he was in another place, in another time, and he tried to prepare himself, waiting for the boot to be withdrawn so that it might strike again.

Instead, the other foot drove deep against the unprotected flesh of his abdomen, and the orc lurched forward. In his haste and his rage he had not reacted swiftly enough to the fallen bodies in his path. He tripped over them now, falling with arms outstretched to break his descent.

But Aragorn had judged the distance well. When the orc's knees struck earth, arms and torso did not. The edge of the path struck him in the midst of his great, knotted thighs, and his body pitched down, over the edge. There was a sound of impact as he hit the scree slope below, and the last ululation of shock and fury echoed in the valley as the body tumbled down, down, down onto the unforgiving rocks below.

Aragorn had no time to enjoy his moment of success. There was one orc alive yet, and it was trying to tear the very scalp from his skull. Claws scrabbled at his temple, and sharp pain shot through his head. Aragorn bore down with his legs upon the struggling body while his right hand seized and twisted the assaulting wrist. There was a noise of tendons straining, and the orc let out a howl of anguish.

'Let go! Let go!' he wailed. It was Third Voice.

Aragorn's left hand found the creature's wart-crusted throat and he squeezed. 'Be still!' he hissed, his voice hoarse from exertion and want of air. He got his knee under him, pressing down on the orc's abdomen. Still the goblin struggled. He was indeed smaller than an average Uruk; wiry and lean. There was a hump on his back, and even supine as he was Aragorn could tell that he walked with a pronounced stoop – possibly a mark of his breed, but more likely a sign that he had not always been a patrolling soldier. Orcs who rose through the ranks were not unheard of, but it was rare to find one who had won his way out of the mines or the slag-pits. He was clever indeed, then, and resolute – and perhaps determined to live.

'Be still,' he repeated, reefing more violently upon the wrist. 'Be still or I will break your arm.'

The flailing legs went limp. 'Let it go! Let it go!' the orc choked, forcing the words out through the painful pressure on his vocal chords.

'No.' Aragorn's voice was stronger now, and hard as the rock-face before him. 'I will loose my hold on your throat if you do not attempt to move, but I will not release your hand.'

The orc tried to nod, but the motion made the pressure on his neck unbearable. 'Yes,' he breathed instead. 'Yes. I ain't going to move.'

Aragorn relaxed his fingers, which were beginning to cramp beneath the blistered skin, and let his hand rest across the goblin's clavicle, where it might resume its vise-like hold at the least provocation. 'Put your other hand against your breast,' he ordered. 'Just below mine. Do it.' To emphasize his point, he twisted the pinned arm a fraction of a degree further.

Panting in pain, the orc obeyed. He had not survived whatever it was that he had survived by defying those with a clear advantage. 'What do you want?' Third Voice growled.

'I heard you speaking,' Aragorn said. 'You and your fellows were speaking about the blood on the rocks.'

'Yer blood, from the look of things,' the orc grunted, something like defeat in his voice.

'That's right,' the Ranger hissed. 'My blood. They also made mention—'

'_Tarks_ don't understand our speech,' the orc said shrewdly. 'What sort of man are you?'

'A man who wants answers,' Aragorn said curtly. A falsehood would have served him better, perhaps, for even the orcs feared the Black Númenoreans who served as captains and executioners in Sauron's legions, but that price he was not willing to pay. 'They made mention of a "water-rat" and a sneak. Of what were they speaking?'

The orc barred his teeth, and the stench of rottenness exuded by his body intensified. Aragorn clamped his lips over the rising bile. 'Why should I tell you? You'll only kill me like you did the others,' Third Voice snarled.

'I will kill you if you do not answer,' Aragorn argued; 'and it will not be pleasant.' He twisted again upon the orc's wrist, bracing himself more firmly upon his captive's abdomen.

'Set me free, and I will answer your questions,' the orc said, malicious eyes glinting.

'Answer my questions, and I will consider your terms,' countered the Ranger. His fingers brushed threateningly over the orc's windpipe. 'What is this "water-rat" of which they spoke?'

For a moment there was silence, and Aragorn realized with sickening dread that he might have to make good his threat. The thought of killing any creature, even an orc, that was so utterly in his power repulsed him – and yet he could not risk having the goblin run back to its masters with news of a rebel _tark_ who understood the Black Speech hunting in these hills.

But Third Voice did not wish to die. He had survived too much to cast it all away keeping worthless information secret. 'There were a thief in these hills,' he said. 'We never saw it, but it were stealin' things. Food and things. Supplies. Liked the pools under the mountains, it did. Water-rat.'

Aragorn's pulse quickened. 'When?' he demanded. 'When was this? How long ago?'

The orc tried to shrug his deformed shoulder. 'Two year, maybe three,' he said.

'Where did it go? Which way did it go?' There was desperation in his voice, but Aragorn would have been unable to mask it even if he had possessed the presence of mind at that moment to care. Without realizing it, he twisted upon the orc's wrist. 'Tell me where it went!'

Third Voice let out a thin, sharp yowl of anguish. 'I don't know!' he wailed. 'I don't know! The thievin' stopped one day, that's all! We thought maybe it'd come back when the watchers brought news of a climber! I tell you I don't know where it went!'

Remorse bit into Aragorn's soul and he let go of the orc's arm as if it had changed into a fiery brand. He straightened his back, withdrawing the threatening hand from the goblin's neck. 'Where was it hiding?' he said, his voice low. It took all of his resolve to force an imperious note into it now. 'Where are the pools that it liked to frequent?'

'Seven-eight day march,' the orc snivelled. 'Take the left fork, northward. I don't know any more.' He cringed wretchedly. 'I promise I don't know any more.'

Orc-promises were not worth the breath it took to utter them, but Aragorn had the information he needed. Trying to retain his dignity even through the rending shame born of his lack of self-control, he lifted his knee from the orc's abdomen and climbed slowly to his feet. A sharp pain lanced up his left side and he clutched his ribs, inhaling harshly over the discomfort.

'Very well,' he panted. 'We had an agreement. I will spare your life, but I cannot have you following me. If you lower yourself carefully over the edge, you will not fall to your death. Go. Begone.'

The orc stared at him, dumbfounded. Even in the darkness Aragorn could make out the faint signs of disbelief upon the misshapen face. The wretched creature had not expected to be set free.

'Over the edge,' he repeated wearily. 'Go.'

'Aye,' the orc yipped, scrambling to his feet, long arms dragging against the stones. Though the Ranger did not know it, there was a light in his eyes that could not be disobeyed. Fear and awe drove the goblin as he lumbered to the place where his compatriot had fallen. 'Aye, I'm going...'

Aragorn watched as the orc first knelt, then lay down on his belly, lowering his legs carefully into the black abyss behind. For a moment the clawed hands gripped the stone. Then they released their hold. There was a sound of shifting debris and a sharp yelp, then a low noise of shuffling and scrambling as the goblin navigated thelong slide down into the valley. For a moment there was silence, and then Aragorn thought he could hear gleeful laughter far away below.

His blood ran cold. Mercy in Mordor brought only ill ends, and he did not doubt that he would one day be haunted by the fruits of his ill-advised clemency, but what else could he have done? To slay the helpless wretch would have cost him his decency, and that was a sacrifice he was not yet willing to make, not even for his life.

He sank slowly to his knees, keening softly as the pain of his as yet unknown injuries began to throb in a discordant symphony of suffering. There was foul black blood congealing on his hands and his clothes, in his hair, on his face. He had spent his strength in battle and in the impromptu interrogation. He had none left now to go pawing in the dark, looting the corpses for useful gear. He would wait a while, he told himself, and the claw-wounds on his scalp throbbed with the thrumming of his heart. Then he would see to that chore and resume his hunt. In a little while. Only a little while.


	5. The Empty Pass

**Chapter V: The Empty Pass**

The first grey light of dawn was filtering through the low cloud cover when Aragorn at last picked himself up, bracing his body against the rock wall with his off-hand while his right clutched his side where the orc's left boot had struck. His head swam, but a moment's stern focus drove back the dizziness. Having no desire to return to this spot ever again, he looked about at once for anything of use. The sabre of the orc who had so injured his chest lay near the edge. He shuffled over and used the toe of his boot to push it off of the path, watching as it tumbled away to come There was blood – man and orc both, now – on the stones, but as he could not dispose of the bodies lying just around the corner there seemed little enough point in disguising what had happened here.

With leaden feet he shuffled around the dangerous corner, almost tripping over the first carcass. Slowly he knelt, and was then obliged to release his aching ribs as he went about the unpleasant task of despoiling his fallen foes. At the best of times orcs stank of rottenness and unspeakably foul secretions, but these three were already beginning to reek with the first gaseous emissions of decay. More than once Aragorn had to stop, turning his head away as he fought the urge to vomit. In the end, however, he had a heap of goods assembled, and he crawled away from the last of the corpses to sort through it.

There was an assortment of belts and straps and buckles, and he chose the broadest of these and two narrow lengths of leather that might be of use should he need a tourniquet or some other slender binding. He had recovered his own knife from amid the carnage, and he wiped it carefully on a length of cloth torn from the tunic of the Tower-orc. Orc-clothing was of no use for bandages, but at least it was clean enough for that. One of them had carried a little pot of grease in a belt-pouch, and with this he carefully oiled his Elven blade. Of the orc-weapons, the scimitars were too large and unwieldy for his purposes, and consoling though it would have been to have a longer blade he knew it was counterproductive to exhaust himself hauling about a sword that he could not properly use. There was a wide variety of smaller daggers to choose from, indeed far too many for three soldiers to carry, but his own knife was still the best of the lot. He took three slender blades little more than a handspan in length, obviously meant for throwing, and he left the rest.

Then there were the packs to search. Orcs travelled light, and apart from a few crude trinkets of questionable provenance there was little of interest in their bags. Each had a parcel of greasy, vile-smelling meat, and knowing as he did what orcs liked best to eat, Aragorn cast it away with convulsive distaste. There were also a few hunks of dense, black bread. These he kept. In one bag, to his horror, he found a little leather sack filled with bleached bones that he recognized as human phalanges. He cast these away, but he did take two copper bangles carved with unsightly figures: one never knew when a piece of malleable metal might prove useful.

His plundering was finished then save for the water-skins, of which there were seven that had not been wrung dry or burst when their bearers fell upon them. By this time he was acutely aware of a tormenting thirst, and he realized that he had not taken the time to drink since before lying down to sleep the previous afternoon. A moment of desperate dehydration was no time to attempt to assess the safety of orc liquids, and so he moved to where he had stowed his own pack, thankfully well away from the fighting, and retrieved his bottles. The first held only silt and the last dregs of the murky water he had gathered in the valley, but from the second he took several unpleasant mouthfuls. The taste was more foul now than it had been, but in his thirst he cared little for that.

Faced with the reality of his dwindling store of water, he returned to the orcs' skins nourishing the desperate hope that one of them at least might contain something fit for consumption. He had seen no sign of a stream yesterday, and in this dry air he could not long sustain his pace or his life on a single bottle of stale, dirty water.

The first two skins contained a loathesome-smelling liquor. Aragorn wrinkled his nose. He had had the misfortune of sampling this unholy brew before under great duress, and he had no intention of doing so voluntarily, but it might be of use in cleaning his wounds. He cast one sack aside, but kept the other. The next skin was almost empty, and the fourth, though gorged with liquid, smelled strongly of sulphur. In the fifth he found a clear fluid only faintly redolent of tannins and burned hair. Gingerly he tipped a little into his lip and held it there. When it did not burn or sting, he rolled it around his mouth. Though it was bitter, it seemed to be water. Regretfully, that skin was little more than half-full, but he bunged with care and laid it gently to the side. The sixth also held the goblin-cordial, and the last was filled with water so vile that he wondered that even an orc might find it palatable.

He kept that last sack, too, however, for he was crusted with black cruor and he could not spare potable water for washing. Dragging the three skins with him he returned to his pack. His left side was searing with pain now, and he knew he could no longer delay an assessment of his injuries. His arms and shoulders were stiff from exertion followed by prolonged inaction, and it was no mean feat to wrestle out of his cote and shirt. Bare to the waist he next untied his hose, rolling them down over the tops of his boots. The cloth at the knees was shredded, and the flesh beneath was skinned raw, but otherwise his legs were unscathed. That was a blessing, for they had many countless leagues to cover.

He turned his attention now to his left flank. There was an ugly purple bruise spreading across his abdomen, but though it ached upon palpation he did not think that any of the soft organs beneath had been damaged. His ribs were gloriously black, and it was from there that the worst of his pain was radiating. Gritting his teeth, he pressed upon the battered ridges. Hot anguish shot through his torso, but the bones did not yield under the pressure of his hand. Tears of pain and relief sprang to his eyes: the ribs were not broken.

Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to discern where else he was hurting. His back was sore, and with a little creative contortion and considerable craning of his neck he contrived to catch sight of the wicked contusion on his right side, where he had hurled the full weight of his body upon an ill-placed stone. He spared a moment to hope that he had not done serious damage to his kidney, but there was nothing that he could do if he had, and so there was no sense fretting about it. All the same, he did not dare to ration his water too frugally now; he had to find a fresh source, and soon.

He felt each arm and shoulder with care, but found nothing save the odd scratch or bruise. His left underarm was scored in several places, and upon examining his garments he found identical rents in tunic and shirt: the work of the small orc's claws.

That reminded him of the wounds to his scalp, but he dared not touch those with such filthy hands. With neither soap nor sand there was little he could do save lave them in the foul water from the last skin, but that he did, and then doused them with a dram or two of the orc-liquor. Carefully, wary lest his untrimmed nails inflict further damage, he felt his temple, following the deep scratches up into the hair. So thickly were his tresses matted with blood that it was impossible to gauge the extent of the damage, but he took some consolation from the knowledge that not all the gore was his own.

He could not risk an infected wound, so he did not use the foul water to wash his head. Instead he rummaged in his pack for his last clean rags, and drenched them with the orcs' cordial. The alcohol burned in the wounds and ran down his face. He screwed his eyes shut to protect them from the stinging fluid and locked his jaw against the harsh shriek of pain as the fire began in earnest. His hands fell into his lap and he bowed over them, bent double in agony as the liquor bit deep, smouldering in the open gashes and purging away the filth of the orc's claws.

At last the searing anguish abated a little and Aragorn groped for the water-skin, rinsing his hands blindly and splashing the vile fluid on his face to wash away the blood and the liquor and the traitorous tears that he could not entirely contain. When at last he dared to open his eyes he was quivering with enervation.

He used the rags once more, to clean the grit from his chafed knees. Then he washed his hands again. The wounds to his scalp were bleeding copiously now, thin red fluid trickling down his face and onto his shoulder. He had to bandage the wound, but his stock of spare cloth was depleted. Cursing silently, Aragorn set his mouth and steeled his will against unfortunate necessity. He would be courting death if he applied the orcs' foul cloth to his head: he would have to cannibalize his own garments.

In northern lands he might have been less reluctant: there was often some other Ranger willing to offer his spare shirt to a comrade who had been pressed to destroy his own linens, and at direst need (for he was loath to burden his folk with his upkeep) the women of the Dúnedain would no more deny him than they would their own husbands and sons. Such simple garments could even be purchased ready-made, at admittedly exorbitant prices, in Bree-land. Indeed, Aragorn was even able to return to Rivendell to replace lost clothing. But here, on the fences of Sauron's domain, cloth – clean cloth – was as unattainable as fine wine or _athelas_. If he shredded his shirt, he would have to go without until such a time as he had leisure to return to less inclement lands.

For reasons of comfort, health and hygiene, he was reluctant to make that sacrifice. Who could say how many months he might wander here, seeking the elusive Gollum? Yet a shirt would avail him nothing if he bled to death, or grew so giddy from the trickling wounds that he lost his footing on some mountain path and plunged to his death. So he picked up the stained and malodorous garment, which though hardly clean at least did not reek of decay and orcish filth, and with his long knife cut a small rent next to the left shoulder seam. Digging his fingers into the hole, he tore. There was a sharp, whistling noise of ripping linen as the sleeve came away.

In the same way he removed the cuff, which he folded into a pad to be pressed over the worst of the wounds. The rest of the sleeve he reduced swiftly to narrow strips. It was as well that he had long arms: the pieces of cloth wrapped neatly around his head, with plenty of room for careful knotting. Keeping his hair out of the way proved a challenge, but in the end he deemed that the bandages would stand up to workaday abuses. He imagined he looked quite the fool, with one strap beneath his chin and another around his crown and a third running behind his head, but the pressure soothed the stinging ache, and he felt less faint now.

His jaw ached from the clenching, and he reflected grimly that he was fortunate he had not broken any teeth. If he did not begin to take greater care, this adventure might well be his last. With a disgusted sigh, Aragorn donned his one-sleeved shirt. Taking the broad belt that he had appropriated from his dead foe, he fastened it about his chest, drawing it snug so that it pressed upon his bruised ribs. With one of the smaller straps he fashioned a halter, so that his shoulder would support the belt and keep it from slipping down to his waist. Satisfied with this makeshift dressing, he set about replacing the rest of his clothing.

He unlaced his cote so that he did not have to tug it over his bandaged head. Lacing was clumsy work, for his burned left hand was stiff and his aiglet had at some point been lost, but in the end he was clothed again. His hose would have to wait to be mended, for he was growing increasingly uncomfortable here, with his kills piled at his feet. Carrion would soon begin to gather, and then there would be danger of discovery. He got unsteadily to his feet and gathered up his possessions. As his pack settled into place the pressure on his bruises gave him pause, but he snugged up the right strap a little, which helped considerably. Arranging the two water-skins – for he had decided to keep the one filled with orc-cordial – so that they did not aggravate his hurts took more wrangling, but in the end he was ready to march.

He walked more slowly than was his wont, for he could not breathe deeply without pain and his limbs were stiff. When at last he reached the place where the path broadened he returned to the cave. He attempted to stoop, but the act of bending sent knives of anguish from his bruised chest into his viscera, and so Aragorn got down on hands and knees to navigate the low entrance. His torches lay untouched where he had left them.

He hesitated, eyeing the cleared ground at the back of the shallow alcove with a transient longing. His body was begging softly for rest, and weary as he was he doubted that he would be visited by dark dreams. Yet he dared not linger here. He cursed his short-sighted failure to interrogate the orc more thoroughly. He might have demanded the numbers and location of other patrols in the mountains, and more importantly, how long it would be before the five he had encountered would be missed by their fellows. Without this information he had to press blindly on, unsure of what dangers lurked around the next corner.

He could not bear the added weight of the torches upon his back, and so he carried them before him, mindful not to worry his ribs. Soon his arms began to ache with the unaccustomed burden, but he dared not cast them aside. Onward he walked, as quickly as his battered body would allow. The path turned and twisted, but ever it carried him northwards.

_lar_

That night he sheltered for a few short hours between a boulder and the rock wall. He dared not steal more than a couple hours of sleep, for he knew that he had been fortunate to escape detection once and had no hope that his luck would hold. Before dawn he rose and continued on his way. All that day and the next, he saw no sign of spies, nor did he hear any echo of orcs. His mind settled into the new rhythm, and he no longer started like a frightened rabbit at the faintest echo, but ever he remained alert, eyes searching the path and the rocks and the bleak grey sky.

On the third day, he halted at what he supposed was midday. He used his penknife to cut four squares of wool from the disintegrating hem of his cloak, each a little longer than the palm of his hand. With these he mended the knees of his hose, backing each patch with another. The missing cloth was scarcely noticable amid the yards of fabric that comprised his outermost garment, but upon his knees the scraps provided protection from injury and the elements alike. Feeling rather smug, he opened his pack and selected a frugal dinner from his still-generous cache of food.

It was when he had eaten that he discovered he had come to the end of his water. Since clambering out of the gully he had seen no sign of rill or stream. Fresh fear gripped his heart. Hardy though he was he could not survive long without water, and high in these desolate hills there was neither vegetation nor wildlife to guide him towards any source of drink. Fortunately he had still a good supply of wild apples, and those would furnish him with fluid for a time, but if he did not soon find some mountain spring, or standing pool, or puddle amid the rocks, he would not survive.

That day he ate half a dozen apples at intervals throughout his march, but though they offered water their sour flesh filled his mouth with an unpleasant taste and sat uneasily in his otherwise empty belly. He did not dare to eat his strips of dried meat or the hard orc-bread, for that would only parch him further, but without ballast he grew swiftly nauseated and he did not sleep at all that night. The following day he ate nothing, but chewed on the fruit until all the moisture was gone and then spat out the waxy remains. In this way he drove off thirst for a few more miles.

By the sixth day since his skirmish with the orcs, Aragorn was plagued with an aching head that had nothing to do with the wounds he had sustained. His temples throbbed and his vision pulsed in time to the beating of his heart. His mouth was raw and sore from endless ruminating upon the now-hated apples. Worse, all that he could think of was water; clear, cool water free from silt and contaminants, untainted with pectin and sharp acidic juice, fresh water drawn from a well or lapped up from a stream or caught on the tongue in the midst of a clean spring downpour.

He tried to distract himself with thoughts of the hunt. He had been walking for six days, and he had yet to find the fork in the path where Third Voice had instructed him to turn to the left. Since he had said that the mountain pools (pools of cold runoff, wet and silent and deep...) where the "sneak" had liked to hide were seven or eight days from the root of the path, Aragorn surmised that he was moving more slowly than the wont of the orcs. This was not encouraging. Though he was weary, he pushed on through the night, striving to make up for lost time.

Before dawn, he spat out the residue of his last crab-apple.

The seventh day slipped vaguely by, and the eighth passed in a torment of thirst. He scarcely felt the ache in his side now, so all-consuming was the dryness in his mouth and his throat. Onward he stumbled, for he knew not what else to do. His tongue was swollen in his mouth, and the skin of liquor hanging at his side tortured him with its sloshing. It enticed him, and he longed to drink the vile concoction, but he knew that this would not slake his thirst, and might well quicken his death from dehydration. Ever his ears strained for the sound of a mountain stream. Ever his eyes searched for any darkening of the stones that might indicate the presence of moisture. Ever his heart hoped desperately for rain.

Still he walked, his head reeling and his hand gripping the rock wall beside him to support his unsteady body. His bruised kidney was burning, throbbing against his back. His knees shook. His lips were cracked and parched. Though the air was cold his flesh seemed to burn with an inner fire. Seldom had he felt such thirst, and never had he endured so long without water. He knew he was no longer alert enough to scent danger, and if an enemy came upon him now it would take him virtually unaware, and yet he could focus on nothing but vague thoughts of water...

_lar_

Hours sunset he fell to his knees, unable to move any farther. His head drooped low over his lap, bowed in desolation. Aragorn had seen the tributaries that flowed down from these hills, westward into Poros in the south and the Morgulduin in the north, and eastward into the streams that fed the Sea of Nûrn. The Ephel Dûath were not without their springs and falls, and yet it seemed that in this place there was nothing. He wondered what devilry this was, that the mountains brought forth no runoff and the skies held no clouds low enough to wet the stones. In his fever of dehydration, he half believed that it was an artifice of the Enemy, aimed solely at such trespassers as he.

He knelt there long in the middle of the path, panting through lips that he could no longer force closed. His torches, borne these many miles without any hint of a subterranean way to light, slipped from his aching hands and clattered on the stones, scattering chips of dried pitch as they fell. His chest rose and fell with a habitual rhythm, clinging infuriatingly to life despite the dryness that coated his throat with dust and made his lungs ache.

Aragorn wanted to cry out to Ulmo, of all the Valar most friendly towards Men, to beg him to reveal his bounty in this high and desolate place. He longed to call on Manwë to send winds to blow heavy-laden rain clouds that might anoint these barren mountains. He ached to shout for Aulë, to charge him to open up the stones that water might pour forth, but he had no voice. He had no strength. He had no will.

His hands and feet were tingling, and the muscles in his legs began to cramp and twitch. It was this pain at last that forced him to move, and he slipped to one side, drawing his feet out from under his body. Numb hands kneaded his calves, and he blinked stupidly, trying to clear the mist from his vision. Frustrated at the failure of that attempt, he scrubbed at his eyes with a wayward fist. Still, his sight was obscured by a thickening curtain of grey.

Irrationally angry, he rubbed more vigorously, like a petulant child incapable of understanding the source of his frustration. Only when the first cool droplets began to condense on his brow and his cheeks and his sluggishly bleeding lips did he realize that the mists were not some vision conjured up by his weary eyes or his failing mind. The path was obscured in a thick vapour that settled upon his skin and his garments and the stones beneath him. He drew in a deep, gasping breath that pulled the heavy haze into his mouth and down through his aching chest. Droplets began to form over the surface of his face and bead his lashes and wet his hair. A harsh barking sound tore loose from his raw throat, and though it grated unpleasantly upon his ears it wakened a spark of joy in his weary spirit. Hoarsely and discordantly, but with delight unlooked-for, Aragorn laughed.

The fog was rolling in.


	6. A Spot of Luck

**Chapter VI: A Spot of Luck**

Mist in the mountains was very different from mist on the plains. In the low places it was an ethereal creature, retreating before one's eyes and melting away at the first hint of sun. But high amid the crags and pinnacles of the lofty peaks, a fog bank was nothing less than a low-hanging storm-cloud, brought near enough to rock to weep rain upon whatever surface it touched. Two days ago Aragorn might have wished for a raging downpour that would fill his bottles and wash the filth from his garments, but now, brought low by thirst, this vapour was an unhoped-for blessing.

Thus had he laughed, in joy and relief – and in appreciation of the wit of the Valar. In his heart he had evoked the names of Ulmo, of Manwë and of Aulë, and it seemed that all three had sent him succour like the answer to a riddle: water borne upon the air and gathered from a stone. Hastily he dug his bowl from his pack and set about the painstaking task of collecting the fluid where it condensed upon the cold rock wall. Each brush of his hand yielded only a few drops while his parched tongue strained to catch the rivulets trickling down his face, but slowly he gleaned a dram, and then an ounce, and then enough to cover the bottom of the wooden dish. He drank then, in short frantic mouthfuls, and resumed his efforts with fresh vigour.

In the end, he managed to harvest enough to slake his thirst and to fill one of his bottles past the three-quarter mark. By this time, however, many hours had passed and the dark was thick around him. The clouds faded away, blown off, perhaps, to happier climes, and the night was cold. Aragorn's garments were damp, and had it not been for the orc-blood ingrained into the cloth he would have wrung them out until his hands bled, hoarding that water, too. As it was he let them be, but the wet cloth chilled him and he shivered in the bleak night air.

It would serve him poorly to remain here, exhausting himself in a fruitless struggle against the elements. If once he got moving, he would quickly warm himself. So Aragorn hung his bottle of treasured fluid from his belt, gathered up his bundle of unlit brands, and climbed carefully to his feet. Keeping his left side near the rock wall so that he would be sure to take the correct path if he passed the fork in the darkness, he set out once more.

_lar_

Aragorn moved more quickly now than he had in days. The water had done much to banish the malaise that clung to him, and despite his privations his bruises were mending. More importantly, he felt more hopeful now than he had at any time since leaving Gandalf's company. Whether the coming of the mists had been a mere stroke of providence or a sign from the Valar, he could not say, but he preferred to think it was the latter. He had forsaken the lands of light and freedom for these dark, barren hills, but even here he was not forgotten. If they could not send him good fortune in his hunt, at least they had offered him life. Having seized it with both hands, he would not lightly let go.

The sun rose somewhere beyond the gloom, and the bleak grey day greeted him. He sipped but sparingly from his bottle, husbanding his meagre supply of water and praying that he might find some other source before it was expended.

He came upon a place where the path widened a little. There was a niche scooped out of the rock-wall, sheltered on one side by an outcropping of rock. It was as good a place as any to rest, and Aragorn was by this time very weary. He settled down, sitting with his back pressed into the alcove, and leaned his head against the cool rock. Sleep found him swiftly even through the latent tension that demanded he never entirely relinquish his wary watchfulness, and his tired body rested for a time.

He awoke before nightfall and carried on his way. There was nowhere to go but forward, and he could not say how much time he had lost in his half-demented stumbling of bygone days. As darkness gathered once more, Aragorn became aware of an oppressive force, oozing and eddying around him, broken only by the low, steady noise of his boots upon the hard rock. It pressed against his limbs and seemed to steal the breath from his breast, and his head pulsed and ached as his mind struggled against it. At first he could not discern what was amiss; what was preying so mercilessly upon his spirit. It seemed as though this thing, whatever it was, had been hounding him for days – though only now, when it began to trouble his sanity, did he take any notice of it.

For several miles this puzzle gnawed at him, as his pulse raced and his eyes darted furtively through the night. He was frightened by the encroaching sense of madness that was clawing away at his courage. The night seemed at once empty of all signs of life, and teeming with some malicious power bent upon cracking his fragile façade of control and plunging him into panic. It pressed behind him, egging him onward at a great pace, though before him it stood like an impenetrable wall that ever retreated a handspan ahead of his advancing feet.

At last, unable to endure it longer, he stopped, panting and groping for the rock wall. Instinctively he pressed his back against it. His whole body was trembling and he was all but overcome with fear. He let the torches fall from his arms, and they landed with a clatter upon the ground. Instantly the oppression eased, only to surge swiftly back.

Aragorn let out a thin, nervous chuckle as he understood what was so preying upon his reason. It was the hazard that dogged the lonely traveller wheresoever he wandered, particularly in barren mountains bereft of wildlife or insects or whispering trees, bereft even of the music of the stars.

Silence.

In living lands, a Ranger was surrounded by the noises of the wild. Though alone and often lonely, a wanderer was at least reminded that his isolation was not absolute. Here there might be a cricket, singing in the night. Here the snap of a twig as a badger lumbered past. There a babbling brook; there a rustling of wind in the briars. The call of an owl, the beating of a bat's wings. Yet here, high in the Mountains of Shadow, there was not even the whistling of the wind to break the tyrannical silence of the thick, starless night.

'You're a fool, Strider,' he said aloud. His voice was rusty from disuse and recent dehydration, but the stark syllables of Westron reverberated in the hush and eased the pressure on his lungs. 'After all the long leagues you have walked alone, and all the years you have wandered, you should be accustomed to this by now.'

Yet how did one grow accustomed to such isolation, he wondered bitterly. How did one cope, year after year and decade after decade, with spending more time by oneself in dark and dangerous places than one passed in fellowship with comrades and beloved kin? Mortals were social creatures who thrived in the company of others, and yet more often than not Aragorn found himself far from any friendly face, wandering without purpose and fighting without hope in the long defeat. Each lonesome journey wore away at his soul, and it was only the occasional visit to Rivendell, the odd night in the company of his men in the North, the rare journey in Gandalf's company, that kept the madness at bay. Now here he was, walking aimlessly towards an uncertain end. Rivendell was a thousand miles away, and his men walked roads even more remote, guarding the Shire against a danger that had not yet been confirmed, and Gandalf...

He had likely reached Minas Tirith by now, Aragorn reflected. How long would he search in the annals of the Kings before he found what he sought, or despaired of that, too, and went to beg aid from Saruman? Vast were the vaults of lore in the White City built by the sons of Elendil. He recalled well the sight of those libraries; the great rooms filled with venerable records and scrolls so ancient that they were crumbling to dust. Only a fraction of the tomes were catalogued, and no man now living could say with impunity what was contained within that collection, second only to the libraries of Elrond and not so well-kept by half. Gandalf might search for days, or weeks, before he found what he sought – and longer still if it was not there to find.

Trying to tell himself that he did not envy his friend his task, the Ranger moved onward. He wanted distraction, and so he resorted again to an old strategy and plumbed the depths of his mind for some song to bear his mind away from the emptiness that surrounded him. He had better luck this time, and lighted upon a less dolorous canto of _The Lay of Leithian_, though his most favoured lines eluded him.

Day came and still he walked, rationing his water as strictly as he could bear to and striving to keep his mind from the dwindling supply in his bottle, and his unbearable isolation, and the uncounted perils that lay ahead.

_lar_

Just ere dusk he came at last to a place where the path diverged; one leg arcing left, striking as true a northward path as Aragorn could gauge without a clear sky, and the other vanishing away to the southeast. The second path led most likely down towards the spur of the Ephel Dûath that thrust towards the very heart of the Black Land and marked the division between the plateau of Gorgoroth, and the arid plains of Lithlad. The first – Aragorn could not bear to think where it would take him, but that was the road he was bound to choose.

Yet he did not turn, for his eyes were drawn to the southern path and the way he could not take. Even here, the descent began, and carven between the path and the rock wall there was a gutter, crafted doubtless by whatever wretched picks had fashioned these winding fissures into useable avenues. Yet Aragorn did not trouble to reflect upon the history of this place or the slaves who had been driven to their deaths during one of Sauron's past ascents to power. He was only aware of the purpose of the narrow trough, for at the crux of the wall where the two roads met there was a gully in the wall itself, carved not by the hands of man or orc but by the water that sprang from some unseen source high overhead, trickling and cascading down to fill a small pool. The excess ran down into the gutter, carried away along the path to supply water to those who marched that road.

Aragorn stared, transfixed by this glad sight. Then suddenly the mastery over his limbs returned and he bolted forward, falling to his knees by the edge of the pool.

Though no more than an arm's length across, it was deep, for the water had worn away the very rock itself. The water within was cold and more fresh by far than any Aragorn had found since leaving Harondor. Downstream, doubtless, it became befouled, smirched with the filth of orc-camps and soured with brimstone and lime, but here it was sweet and as clean as the rills of the Hithaeglir – or nearly. Aragorn cupped his hands and bent low to drink, banishing the thirst of a day of self-denial. He bathed his face, and pushed up his sleeves that he might lave his hands and his arms. He took a handful and drizzled it upon the back of his aching neck. He gathered his bottles and the orc's water-skin, rinsing each thrice before laying them out upon the ground to air. He drank again.

The bandages on his head were long gone, lost at some point during the vague days of suffering when he had thought himself likely to perish from thirst. Moving down the southeast path a short ways, he knelt again and washed the blood and grime and oil away from the crusted wounds. Then, for it might be his last chance to do so for many weeks, he stripped off his garments and bathed himself as best he could. He rinsed his body linens, beating them upon the stones and wringing them again and again until at last the water from them ran clear. Then he shook them out and spread them to dry. His other garments he gathered together, and he pulled on cote and cloak and sat by the pool, bathing his weary feet in the runoff until they grew too cold to bear further soaking. After that he settled with his back to the rock wall and the pool to his left.

He rested there all night, drinking whenever he felt able. He ate thrice in the hours of darkness, gingerly nibbling at increasing portions as he tried to reintroduce nourishment to a shrunken stomach. When at last daylight came, he filled his drinking-vessels from the stream. He hesitated over the skin that held the orc-liquor. He might pour out its contents and rinse it thoroughly before filling it, too, with water, but he was unsure of the wisdom of that course. Who was to say whether the water would be palatable, or what noxious fumes might leech out of the skin to render it unfit for consumption? Furthermore, though he was loath to touch it he knew that the cordial might serve a purpose, should he find himself wounded beyond his strength. He remembered its properties well.

In the end he decided that it might prove too precious to waste, even for water. He had his bottles and the other skin, and refreshed as he was he might easily endure for eight days or even ten before the last of this supply was spent. It was enough. It would have to be.

He dressed himself and collected his possessions, then turned and took the northern path, though with each step that bore him nearer to the Morgai the dread settled more inexorably upon his heart.

_lar_

His progress was rapid now, for his strength was returning to him. Once more he took long, steady strides that bore him swiftly up the steepening path. His ribs no longer ached, and the straps with which he had bound them were stowed in his pack with the remainder of his food.

His meals were growing increasingly unpleasant. Some of his meat, so carefully dried over campfires in lands now far behind, was beginning to smell faintly, and it had a sour taste that his cache of crumbling herbs could not entirely disguise. Still he deemed it to be edible and with no foreseeable means of replenishing his commons he could ill afford to waste supplies. The orc-bread was hard and dry, and would most likely last for weeks before it spoiled: he left that alone. The nuts he had gathered in South Gondor were buried at the bottom of his pack, untouched for he knew that they would endure longest. He tried not to fret over thought of privation: there was nothing he could do to replenish his stores in this desolate place, and it would serve no purpose to agonize over what could not be helped.

On his second day since finding the fork in the path, he spied a strange outcropping perhaps five rangar overhead. He had been on the lookout for any signs of a cave or passageway since taking this road, and here at last he had found something unusual. He attempted to move further up the path in the hope that he could see what lay above the shelf, but the stone obscured his view.

He halted for a moment, attempting to weigh his options, but he knew even before he began how he would decide. He had come too far and sought too long for Gollum to move on now, and take the chance that this might be an entrance to the underground pools of which the wily orc had spoken. He removed his cloak and his pack and set about securing his belongings so that they would not hamper his climb. He put the skins and bottles into the pack, then rolled his cloak around the torches and used the narrow strips of orc-leather to affix the bundle to the bottom of his pack. He heaved on the weighty burden, adjusting the straps so that it was snug against his back.

Scuffing his boots in the dust, he bent to coat his hands in powder. Then, more nimbly than a lesser man, he sprung upward, his fingers finding firm holds and the toes of his boots choosing crevices in the rock. He began to climb, making his way slowly but skilfully up the steep rock face.

It was hard work and dangerous. Though a fall from this small height would not kill him, he did not fancy dragging a broken leg onward into danger. He focused all of his will on finding the next handhold and pushing his body up another inch, another foot.

At last his shoulder brushed against stone, and he looked up to assure himself that he had reached his goal. A final exertion saw him up onto the ledge, where he pressed himself firmly to the root of the shelf lest it prove inadequate to hold his weight. When his breath returned and his hands ceased their throbbing, he looked around.

He was sitting on a plateau of rock that sloped upward to its edge. At its root it was overhung by the cliff, for there was a low grotto that bit into the rock face, and at its root there was a fissure leading down into darkness.

A smile softened the weather-beaten lines of the Ranger's face. 'Well, well,' he said aloud in a passable impression of a certain (rather small) adventurer whose tales of valour had inspired the Man in his youth; 'it seems we have a spot of luck at last.'

Suddenly thoughts of Bilbo Baggins swirled to the forefront of Aragorn's mind; the courageous little hobbit whose own grand adventure had given rise to this hopeless errand in the first place. Had Bilbo not left the Shire at Gandalf's goading, had the wizard not failed to make a thorough search of a cave one night, had Burglar Baggins not been separated from his dwarven companions deep beneath the city of the goblins, Aragorn would not be sitting here now. Bilbo's serendipitous discovery, the magic ring that had so aided him in his quest to overthrow the dragon and restore the King Under the Mountain to his seat in Erebor, was responsible for this. All the years of hardship and toil, every wound sustained upon this road, every hungry day and every bitter night, all these he owed to a little trinket stumbled upon quite by chance in the darkness beneath the Hithaeglir.

Embittered though he was by the long years of frustration, he begrudged Bilbo nothing. With a fond smile, Aragorn remembered the consternation upon the hobbit's face when he had drawn him aside in the corridors of the Last Homely House to question him about his encounter with Gollum.

'Why, Dúnadan, whatever would you want to know about _him_?' he had yelped, looking suddenly far less dignified than was his wont. 'He's a nasty, unpleasant creature, and I don't like to think on him!'

'I know,' Aragorn had said gravely, guiding his friend into the gallery and taking up a seat in one of the alcoves. He remembered leaning forward over his knees so that he might – almost – meet Bilbo eye-to-eye. 'I would not ask you to recall such unpleasant things except in direst need, but I must hear all that you have to tell.'

'You could ask Gandalf,' Bilbo had protested unhappily. 'I've told him everything.' He had coloured deeply then, and added with a hint of shame; 'That is to say, he wrung it all out of me in the end.'

'Well, now you have a chance to tell it all of your own accord, and to help me in my search,' Aragorn had said pleasantly. 'Even the smallest detail might prove useful, my friend, so I pray you do not abandon your customarily zealous narrative style. Spare not your words, but tell me all.'

But Bilbo, ever eager to share a tale and most particularly those in which he had played some part, had shuddered, eyes wide with horror. 'Your search? You don't mean to say that you're _looking for him_? Oh, no, no, why would you do a thing like that? He's no good at all, Aragorn: you don't want to look for him, and especially you don't want to _find_ him!'

'What I want is of little import,' Aragorn told him then. A grim light had ignited in his eyes, such as he had rarely unmasked in the presence of his pleasant, bucolic and gentle-hearted friend. 'But this is what I must do, and it shall be done with or without the aid of your council.'

'I'll help you, of course I shall help you,' Bilbo had said, looking quite miserable. 'But oh, Dúnadan, are you quite _sure_ you mean to do this? I mean, looking for _Gollum_...'

Many years had passed since that conversation, and Aragorn's resolve had faltered and flagged and at times almost broken. Yet now, thinking of Bilbo Baggins and his innocence and his goodness, thinking of a whole land filled with simple, happy hobbits living simple, happy lives unaware of the potential threat to their merry little homes, he knew he could not forsake the hunt. If Gollum could tell him something, anything, that might better equip him to guard these blameless folk from the merciless hand of the Enemy, then Aragorn had to find him. Whether he wished to or not.

With fresh determination he shook out his cloak and affixed it in place. Digging about for his flint and steel, he lit one of the torches that he had borne for so many miles without use. Setting his jaw and ducking his head, he thrust the burning brand before him and took the first resolute steps into the darkness of the cave.


	7. Beneath the Ephel Dûath

**Chapter VII: ****Beneath the Ephel Dûath**

In the dark places of the earth, time had no meaning. Aragorn had burned away his first torch, and was well on his way to exhausting the second, and he was no nearer to finding anything in this hive of caverns. His progress was slower than he would have liked, for he had to pause every three steps to mark the ground. His sign was a deep groove gouged with a sharp piece of shale, and in the end of the groove that marked the way he had come he wedged a pebble. At turnings and intersections he left a cross, again with one corner marked by a stone. In this way, he might find his way out with his hands alone, for if he found nothing in the next hour or so he would be beyond the point of returning in torchlight.

Aragorn did not particularly like caves. He had lived so much of his life under the open sky that he found the closeness oppressive. At least while he yet had light he could advance with only a little unease, but the light would not last. Deeper and deeper he went, wending his way through the undulating passages – here as broad as a chamber, there so narrow that he was hard-pressed to move forward without turning his body and removing his pack.

When at last his second torch fizzled and went out, Aragorn sat down upon the floor of the low corridor through which he had been shuffling. He set his back against the wall and fumbled in his pack for a little food. His water he took but sparingly: subterranean wells and springs could not be trusted. He had almost met his end once when the madness of thirst had driven him to partake of such waters, and he would not put himself in that position again. When he had eaten he tugged his cloak more snugly round him and wrapped his arms about his chest. He intended to rest a little, but he found sleep slow to come. The blackness seemed to press in upon him from every side, and his breath grew laboured. Though he strove to master himself he could not entirely banish his discomfort, and the more he tried the less inclined he became to sit in idleness.

At last, setting his teeth for he knew that by doing so he was condemning himself to a long and wretched journey groping back towards the surface, he lit his third torch and pressed onward again. For another hour or so he walked, until a sound reached his ears and made him halt. It was a strange, whispering noise, like a chorus of distant voices chanting upon the very border of audible sound. Aragorn held his breath, listening. It did not sound like the squall of bats, nor indeed like the noise of any other underground creature. The strange sound reverberated off of the walls, echoing through the passages and niches.

Acknowledging the irony, he closed his eyes so that he might better focus his hearing. He was not convinced of the wisdom of following such a sound, but follow it he did. Carefully divining its true direction he shuffled along blind, acutely aware of each second that the torch in his hand burned uselessly. But then the sound grew stronger, its source more discernable, and he opened his eyes, hurrying forward as swiftly as he could but halting every three steps to mark the ground.

He came at last to the mouth of some larger chamber: a vast void of darkness filled with the strange sound. Aragorn recognized it now: it was the echo of hundreds of gravid drops of water falling together upon stone and pool. Together they formed a percussion, a strange pattern of sounds that echoed and was amplified in the cavern beyond. Shifting the torch into his left hand he drew his long knife. Then, wary of what he might find in an open place where there was water, he stepped forward into the open space.

It was a large cave indeed: perhaps as large as the Hall of Fire in the Last Homely House far away. Aragorn's torch offered naught but a paltry globe of light in its spreading gloom. The floor was riddled with pools fed by the dripstones above, and great stalagmites sprung up from the earth to meet them. There were columns of limestone, wrought through the long years, and around these Aragorn navigated with care. Though he glanced occasionally upward to the menacing teeth of rock that hung from the roof above, he kept his eyes most often upon the ground, his keen eyes searching the dust for some sign.

He remembered a place not unlike this, far to the North beneath the snow-capped peaks of the Misty Mountains. In place of the pools that cave had housed a vast subterranean lake; cold and menacing and glutted with emptiness. And in its centre a little island, where some wretched creature had dwelt for an unknowable age, hoarding the bones of fish and rodent, and building heaps of ore-bearing stone for amusement, and breeding malice in a place where even goblins dared not tread. Aragorn shivered at the memory, at the thought of what had dwelt in that place, and the haunting image of a well-meaning hobbit unwittingly stumbling upon the lair of the cave-dweller.

He walked the whole perimeter of the cave, one eye flicking from time to time towards the glowing head of his torch. If he did not find some sign before the flame was spent, he pledged himself, he would turn around and go back. He had no desire to linger long in incapable darkness.

Aragorn picked his way between the pools towards the centre of the cave. There was a great boulder there, by a cleft dug deep by the water within. It was an enormous rock, greater in height than the Ranger and more broad by half than it was tall. And there, at last, he found what he sought.

In the silt by the edge of the pool there were tracks. Very faint and muddled were they, and blurred by the inroads of moisture over many months – even years – but after so long searching without any physical sign Aragorn felt as if he had stumbled upon a great treasure. Careful to avoid besmirching the marks he knelt, holding the torch low as he let fall his knife. His fingers traced the air above the tracks, following the confused contours and picking out useful information. Bare feet had made these marks: he could see the indentations of long, prehensile toes. The feet themselves were broad and flat, but smaller than those of man or orc. A slow smile of triumph spread across the Ranger's face. There was only one thing that could have left such tracks here. He had found some sign of Gollum at last.

The moment of vindication ebbed swiftly. There was no telling how long it had been since the creature had inhabited this place. The marks were old, the trail was cold, and there seemed little hope of ever coming to its end. It was not the first time in the long years of hunting that Aragorn had come across signs of his quarry, but always it was the same: if once Gollum had been here, he was long since gone.

Yet obdurate hope endured. Each time such signs were found they were more fresh. Those first remnants in the cave beneath the Hithaeglir had been half a century by Gandalf's guess. In Rhovanion they had found a place where the creature had dwelt for a time in a grim little swamp, two or three decades before. The rumours that had led them to Harondor were five years old or more. Yet here, by the orc's guess, the creature had lived as little as two years ago. Though in two years Gollum might have fled to the far corners of the world, Aragorn could not quite quell the hope that he was closing upon his prey at last.

He picked himself up and moved again, bent low to the ground with the torch thrust before him. His hunter's eyes followed the markings. Some led back towards the passage down which he had come, vanishing as the softer silt gave way to hard ground. Others moved in the opposite direction, and where they vanished the sets of advancing and retreating tracks were pointed to a low passageway leading off of the large cavern.

Aragorn approached, crouching to peer down the corridor. The floor sloped downward, gouging more deeply into the mountains. What had Gollum sought in that direction? Food, perhaps, and finding none he had returned to this place? Or was it a path that led to some other way out, to an avenue that the creature had taken when at last it abandoned its refuge and sought some new home? If the former, the hunter would return on hands and knees, clawing his way wretchedly through miles of black tunnel. If the latter, Aragorn might find himself once more on the trail.

He could not waste such a chance. Bending his back and bowing his head he entered the low tunnel.

_lar_

The path did not branch or divide. When his torch died, Aragorn continued on in darkness, his hands groping along the walls. He walked bent double, his chin tucked to his chest. The passage was narrow and scarcely more than four and a half feet from floor to ceiling. A man much less in height than Aragorn would have found the passage difficult. For the tall Ranger each step was a challenge, and before long his back and his shoulders and his calves began to ache. Steeling his will against the discomfort, he pressed on.

The air grew more stagnant, and his breath came in shallow huffs. The heat was mounting, too, and soon rivulets of perspiration were trickling down his temples and over the bridge of his nose and through his brows into his eyes. Aragorn wiped it away with the back of his hand. He could feel the darkness like a menacing presence behind him, and the blackness before was like an endless sea through which he had to struggle. He tried to fix his thoughts solely upon the task at hand, but the closeness of the passage and the completeness of the darkness and the hammering of his heart in his chest were soon too much to bear. He stumbled upon a loose stone and fell to his knees, thrusting out his palms to break his fall.

Aragorn bowed low over his lap, panting laboriously as he fought for mastery over himself. Grim memories were clawing their way to the surface from places where they had long lay dormant. That for once they were not recollections of Mordor brought him little comfort. Evil, intangible evil in the darkness; and thirst and narrow passages scarcely broad enough for a man to slither through upon his belly. An endless maze of tunnels, over, under and through; and always that sense that something was lurking far below and yet near at hand, a shadow of the mind, a horror of the past, an unplumbed well of terror in the endless night...

With shaking hands he pulled his pack from his back and dug deep within it. He drew out his oilcloth bundle and plucked out a long shaft of cool tallow. His fingers fumbled and he dropped the flint several times before igniting his rag. As the rush caught alight and the glow of the candle suffused the narrow passage, Aragorn's eyes screwed themselves tightly closed against the sudden light, stinging after so long in the darkness, but his breathing eased. He cupped his hand around the dancing flame as though by doing so he could direct its light into his heart and drive away the scattered memories.

'That is quite enough,' he said, attempting to upbraid himself sternly. 'That is _quite_ enough.' The words came out thin and tremulous, and he clamped his lips closed against any more traitorous words.

He blinked several times, rapidly, as he adjusted to the brightness. Though he did not wish to venture forward, he could not justify wasting the rushlight. He worked his pack onto his back again – a difficult task with only one hand free at any given moment – and got to his feet once more, continuing his awkward journey.

A part of his mind wanted to upbraid him for behaving like a spoilt child and wasting light when he had no real need, but there was another part, a more merciful part, that argued that this need was real after all. The failing of courage could undermine his safety as much as any other threat, and more than most. If it was slightly ridiculous for a hardened warrior to find himself afraid of the darkness, it was also uncommon for such a person, raised beneath the Sun and the stars, to be delving ever more deeply into the pits beneath the mountains of Sauron. So pernicious was his fear that it seemed almost unnatural, as if some malicious will was bent upon destroying his resolve and driving him to despair. He could not submit, and if light aided him in his struggle then the candle was well wasted. Refusing to upbraid himself despite the niggling shame, Aragorn pressed forward.

The passage grew narrower and ever more low. At last, Aragorn could no longer stand and he was forced to his knees. Glad now of the patches so carefully applied to his hose, he crawled forward, using one hand whilst the other held the dwindling rushlight before him. After only a few yards, however, his palm was beginning to sting. He halted, and with his knife cut two narrow strips from the hem of his cloak. With these he wrapped his hands, and he continued on his way.

It took some time for the passage roof to sink low enough that his pack scraped against it as he crawled, and longer still before he could no longer advance upon hands and knees, and was obliged to sink down and propel himself forward with his elbows. He had no choice then but to snuff the candle, wait for it to cool, and tuck it back into his pack, which he pushed before him as he advanced. He could not afford the luxury of panic now: if he moved without thinking or he struggled against the ever narrowing tunnel, he would wedge himself in and might never writhe free. He drew upon his deepest reserves of will and focused only upon gaining another inch, another foot.

Still, his heart raced within him, and he was teetering on the very brink of madness when suddenly his pack tumbled away from his herding arms, and his elbows thrust outward, and he breathed cool air once more. Frantically, he scrambled out of the constrictive conduit and found himself tumbling down a brief incline.

He landed in a most undignified heap, and he groped for his pack. There was a moment of consternation when he could not locate it, but his fingers found canvas at last and he pulled his baggage to him. He sat there for a moment, dazed and disoriented, before it occurred to him that this might be a moment when light would have a greater purpose than the strengthening of a Ranger's flagging resolve. He found the candle and lit it again. The wick sputtered, but it took the flame. Aragorn got cautiously to his feet, swaying a little as the blood rushed from his head, and took in his surroundings.

He was standing in a small cavern, far smaller than the one he had left behind. Though it was similarly adorned with stalactites and the other slow incursions of nature, this room had not been formed entirely by the forces of the earth. The floor was smooth and even, and corner was squared as though by a skilled stonemason. As Aragorn took two steps towards that junction, his eyes shed the last of their shadows and opened wide in disbelief.

There, in the rock wall, was a door.

It was made of hard, ancient-looking wood bound with bands and braces of iron. There was a large ring beneath a keyhole, bolted to the door by a staple and obviously meant to serve as a handle. What purpose this room had originally served Aragorn did not dare to think, but as he studied the dust upon the floor it was plain that the door had not been opened in a very, very long time. He tried the handle, and was not in the least surprised to find it locked.

Aragorn withdrew to the far side of the room, considering his options. There were only two exits from this room. One was the hole five feet up on the wall, through which he had tumbled so gracelessly, and beyond it the dreadful passage through which he had come. He doubted that he had the fortitude to subject himself to that ordeal again, at least without rest. But there was that door. He returned to the other side of the room. Upon closer inspection, he spied a third way out: a small vent-like tunnel not far from the door, but it was too small to admit him: lean though he was and slender of bone, he would never contrive to get his shoulders through such a narrow space. Yet a creature of hobbit proportions, gaunt and wiry...

He knelt, thrusting his candle into channel. There were parallel marks where something had dragged over the stone, disturbing the detritus of centuries. Thought the dust had begun to creep back, it could not wholly conceal the signs that something had pulled two legs through this space. Aragorn felt another little thrill of victory. So Gollum had come this way after all – or something near enough like Gollum that he was bound to pursue it. He wondered if the vent led to the same place as the door, but since he did not wish to go back and it was plain that his quarry had been here, he had no choice but to try it.

He tipped a little tallow onto a stone so that the candle would stand on its own. It took considerable digging to find what he sought in his pack, but at last he had his coil of wire and one of the copper bangles stolen from the corpses of the orcs. With his knife, he sawed through the bracelet, and using a stone he beat the curved copper into a flat tool. It was just the right width, and a little careful tapping rounded the rough edges where he had split it. He cut a length of wire, doubling it over and twisting it. Then he shuffled upon his knees to the door and set to work on the lock.

There were many skills that he had acquired over the years. Most were the talents of a soldier, or a lore master. He had some skill with instruments of music. He could ply a needle and mend a fence. He had any number of proficiencies that had been honestly come by, and were a source of pride to himself and to those who had taught him. This particular talent, however, was not one that he had ever seen fit to share with Master Elrond or his foster-brothers. He had learned it in rather dubious circumstances in the distant land of Rhûn, and though it had on occasion proved most useful he was rather ashamed of his aptitude.

After less than a minute he withdrew his makeshift lockpicks. The plate was rusted and the tumblers would not move. Aragorn rummaged again in his pack for the pot of grease he had liberated from its former owner. He smeared it on the copper tine, and worked it into the mechanism of the lock. When he tried again to shift the tumblers, he felt movement. Encouraged, he set to work once more.

Still, it was not easy. The lock was very old, and very heavy. His fingers began to cramp and his wrist to ache. When at last the telltale click was heard he grunted softly in relief, falling back on his heels and slumping his shoulders.

He could not tarry long: his candle was almost spent. Slinging his pack and his one remaining torch back onto his shoulders, Aragorn took hold of the ring and hauled upon the door. The rusted hinges were reluctant to move, but after throwing his full weight into the effort he managed to drag it inward so that there was a gap of about fourteen inches between it and the post.

Suddenly a dreadful stench flooded the small room. It was a smell of decay and indescribable filth, far beyond any staleness of unstirred air. Aragorn's eyes began to sting and his throat constricted. The rushlight flickered and went out. In the darkness he huddled, choking and gagging upon the foul air until at last, as needs must, his body resigned itself to the vile stink. He endevoured to ignite the candle again, but there was no use in trying. Whatever poisons were in the air, it seemed they would not allow him the mercy of fire. Tucking away his flint and steel, Aragorn slipped through the gap in the door and began to grope his way forward. There was nothing more that he could do. He pressed on into the darkness, striving not to breathe too deeply of the loathsome vapour.


	8. A Web of Darkness

**Chapter VIII: A Web of Darkness **

Aragorn's struggle to breathe was no longer exclusively the product of fear. His chest ached with the effort of gleaning useable air from the miasma that seemed almost to have replaced the darkness. What putrescence had given rise to this suffocating stench he could not fathom and did not dare to imagine. With the will that had led men to find victory where they saw only defeat, he banished all speculation and focused on the next laborious breath and the next long, shuffling step. He groped onward, his right hand creeping along the clammy rock wall whilst his left grasped the neck of his cloak, pulling it as far down his chest as he could in a vain attempt to relieve some of the pressure in his throat.

Ever onward he walked. The walls were clammy but smooth, and here and there he found a shallow alcove, such as those used that might house braziers or sconces. No such instruments of light were present here, and he moved on blindly through the blackness and the vile smell of decay and unthinkable foulness. The darkness filled his lungs and permeated his body and seemed to numb his mind. He tried to focus, to fix his will on his unsteady breathing, but his senses were dulled and his thoughts grew detached and disjointed. He could scarcely hear his own footfalls in the thick, stagnant air, and as the rise and fall of his chest grew more laborious even his awareness of the dreadful reek seemed to dull and grow less tangible.

His head was swimming. Dimly he knew that he had little time left in which to find cleaner air. He tried to quicken his pace, but his limbs would not obey. His feet maintained their steady rise and fall and his hand fumbled forward. Alone of all his senses his touch seemed heightened, enhanced, amplified almost to the point where the feel of the cold stone beneath his fingertips brought pain. He could feel the slightest imperfection in the wall beneath his hand, and his left could almost pick out the individual fibres of the cloth it gripped.

The fear that had plagued him in the caverns behind seemed now a very distant thing. Conscious thought was muddled, and he could not remember why the darkness troubled him. It was all that he had ever known. Light, colour, clean open air and the dancing firmament of stars... all these were less than memory, vague concepts that grew more intangible with each moment that passed. What were they but the indistinct imaginings of a fevered mind? Only the darkness was real; the darkness and the curious smell of filth and evil that hovered on the edge of his flagging awareness.

He might have lost himself entirely, save that the slow shuffling of his feet made no allowance for a change in the grade of the floor. When his toes struck the front of a low stair, he stumbled and fell forward onto his knees. He caught himself with his hands, but the impact concussed up arms and legs into his hips and his shoulders and chest. A heavy exhalation of surprise drove the fumes briefly from his lungs and for a moment his mind was cleared of its fog. In that moment he realized with a thrill of horror that he was in very real danger of losing himself entirely to the gloom around him.

Though he had to draw breath, and with the return of the poisons his reason was clouded once more, Aragorn now struggled to fix his mind upon the world he had left behind. He thought of the cold waters of Poros and the glimmer of moonlight – what was moonlight? The glimmer of silver moonlight on the autumn leaves. He thought of golden grasses bowing and rippling before the wind, and of bright wildflowers clustered in ditches far to the North. He thought of tall oak trees adorned in rich woodland green, and red squirrels leaping from branch to branch, scolding one another as they scurried to and fro. He thought of little villages where happy children played, their garments dyed in bright, cheap shades of yellow and green and blue. He thought of the Hall of Fire: of orange flames dancing and the rich colours of fine Elven garments and the rainbow of wools woven into tapestries depicting the storied history of the Noldor. He thought of a maiden, as fair as the twilight itself, clad in soft grey raiment with gems in her shadowy hair, of quicksilver eyes that pierced his very soul, and a gentle, patient smile that pledged him her love and promised all the world...

How disappointed she would be if his labours ended here, cringing on the floor of some foul passage upon the marches of Mordor. Resolutely Aragorn struggled to his feet and climbed the five steps to a place where the passage broadened.

Unsettled by the change he groped around. Not only was the way wider here, but the walls were no longer squared. They curved, meeting the floor seamlessly, and they were coated with a thin, slimy layer that Aragorn hoped was no more than a sweat of condensation from the filthy air. Yet the walls, he noted with some unease, were still smooth; either carved with tools and ground to uniformity, or worn away by some unknown force over the long centuries. He was unsure which prospect should be the more alarming.

Now the passageway branched often; to the left, to the right. Without light Aragorn could not choose his way with any clarity of judgement, and so he did what he deemed simplest and kept a course as nearly straight as he could manage. Presently the incline of the floor altered, and he became aware that he was stumbling up a slope, at times standing upright and at times scrambling with his hands like a beast. Still the darkness clawed at his mind, but he fought it, drawing upon his deep reserves of will to find the memory of living things, colourful things, in a land of light far away.

_lar_

As he moved ever farther through the vile caves, and his struggle for self-awareness grew more and more desperate, Aragorn grew gradually aware that he was not alone in the darkness. There were living things here, hidden somewhere in the dark. He could hear them down the next passage, or somewhere behind the walls, or beneath the floor: the scrape and rustle of motion. At times he thought it was only the wild imaginings of a brain poisoned by the noxious fumes, but the next moment he would find himself certain that somewhere in this hive of tunnels something malicious was lurking, waiting for the moment when it might strike.

He wanted to draw his knife, but if he should chance to stumble again and drop it he might never find it again. Instead he loosed the blade in its sheath so that it might be swiftly drawn, and fumbled in the pouch at his belt for one of the slender throwing-daggers that he had taken from the fallen orc. With cold steel in his overly-sensitive hand he felt less helpless. The irrationality of this thought concerned him only a little. He was far beyond the borders of rationality now.

An absurd urge to laugh seized him as he wondered what Gandalf would have made of his present plight. Wandering without aim high within the Ephel Dûath, armed with a blade less in length than his hand, most likely lost within this maze of corridors, and growing ever more convinced that there was something in the next passage that intended to slay him if it could – what a thoroughly unwise predicament he had created for himself! If Gollum was here, he would never find him. If Gollum had once been here, he would never find a trace of him. It would be a marvel to rival the great miracles of old if he found his own way out into the open air once more. Aragorn son of Arathorn, the great adventurer, the far-wanderer, the mighty huntsman, had followed his prey too far at last.

There it was again! A clicking noise in the darkness. Aragorn whirled around as though he could cast his keen gaze into the blackness behind. If there was anything there, he could not see it. He stood motionless, not even daring to breathe as he listened for something more that might give him a clue as to whence the sound had come or what had made it. It was a vaguely familiar noise, like and yet unlike something he had heard long ago and far away, but his dulled faculties were not equal to the task of placing it and he could hear nothing more that might help him.

He turned again and continued on his way, brushing past passage after branching passage. His fear had returned, and with it the wariness that long years of unrelenting vigilance had honed into the keenest of instincts. The muting power of the noxious dark had less grip over him now, and he was acutely aware of every sound, every movement of air.

Thus it was that he realized that the next gap in the wall he passed led not to another tunnel but into a large, open space. Hesitating only a moment, he took three steps backward and pressed his shoulder to the wall. Slowly he inched around the edge of the opening, careful lest he should expose his back to attack. As his left hand guided him forward he became aware that the walls in this place were coated with some vile secretion, at once sticky and slippery. The stink was stronger here than it had been at any other point in his blind journey through this pit of vileness.

Despite the danger he flung himself away from the wall and took several unsteady steps into the open expanse of the cavern, frantically quelling the urge to retch. Something brushed against his brow and he raised a frantic hand to brush it away, but when his fingers reached his forehead they found nothing.

Disoriented, he stumbled in the darkness. Loathe though he was to touch the slime once more he knew he had to reach the wall, or he would never find his way out of this hollow place. As he took a staggering step forward his boot struck something that creaked and rasped against the floor of the cave. Aragorn's empty left hand thrust outward and touched... _something_.

_lar_

For a moment he did not dare to move, nor to explore further what his fingers had found. The surface was coarse and bristled, as if covered in short, scratch hairs. He waited without breath for the thing beneath his hand to move, to rise up, to smite him.

When it did not he began to move his hand. Hairs indeed: a thick coat of rough hairs upon a hard, scaly base, and interspersed among them were great wiry protrusions like spines of steel. With mounting horror Aragorn reached with his other hand, thumb and forefinger holding the knife against his palm while the other fingers searched. It was a cylindrical thing, covered all over with these horrible hairs, as thick as the bole of a young ash. Searching along its length, which slanted upwards to his right at about fifty degrees, his hands came to a place where the hairs were fewer and the girth of the thing swelled to a great knobbed mass, gnarled and firm but hinged. A joint. _A leg_.

Aragorn recoiled. As he scrambled backward he tripped and fell, landing hard with a force that jarred his spine. He could not breathe, so complete was his horror. Unable to move, unable to think, he remained motionless upon the foul floor of the cavern, waiting for whatever creature he had disturbed to rise up and smite him. Waiting for death.

It did not come. The slow time passed, but there was no sound. Each excruciating second that slipped by brought further proof that he had not yet forfeited his life. At first Aragorn could not comprehend how he yet lived, but then he realized that it must mean that the beast, whatever it was, was dead or otherwise incapacitated. If dead, he could fly from this place before its kindred came seeking vengeance. If slumbering or wounded, he had to be sure it could not later rise up and follow him, smiting him down in some tight place in the maze of lightless tunnels. Yet he could not very well go groping about the body of an unseen and unknown enemy that might rise up at any time. To make a proper assessment he would have to hazard a light, assuming he could ignite one in this heavy atmosphere.

Remembering the failure of his candle far below at the door, Aragorn instead wrested his last torch from his back. His flint sparked ineffectually, but he persisted. With a crackling sound the pitch caught fire at last, and Aragorn swiftly raised the torch as it flamed up to blind him. For a minute he could see nothing, his eyes overwhelmed by the sudden brilliance. Then his vision returned and the glow of the torch was reduced to a pitiful aura of uncertain red light. The brand was too old to burn brightly, and the pervasive darkness seemed to dim it further as it smoked and sputtered. Yet it provided some illumination at least, and Aragorn climbed to his feet, stepping towards the looming form before him.

At the sight of the thing he had unwittingly touched, his courage all but forsook him. There, upon its side on the floor of the cavern, lay a hideous creature born of nightmares. The leg he had felt was one of eight massive, hairy limbs, each one tipped with a curling claw as long as his forearm. A great, bulbous body lay upon its side, the legs outstretched before it like the fingers of some grotesque hand. It was black, marred with livid blotches, and the belly between the great legs was pale. Upon the bloated head were great horns, and fangs marked with poison glinted in the tremulous torchlight. From where he stood Aragorn could not see the spinnerets, but he knew they were there, behind the cluster of legs.

He had seen monstrous spiders before, far away in the shadows of Mirkwood, but such a creature as this was beyond even his most tortured imaginings. Its size outstripped its smaller kindred by tenfold or more, and the body exuded such a reek that Aragorn now understood some part of the foulness of these caverns. Unmoving he stared, stricken with horror.

Yet surely it was dead, for neither his touch nor the light had roused it, nor did any living spider lie with its legs thus clustered beside it, like loosely bundled branches. He forced himself to look at the great faceted eyes, and saw naught but a milky yellowish film, like glass frosted in a furnace in which brimstone had burned. One eye was cracked, and within Aragorn saw only darkness.

Reason penetrated his horror. That was not right: even a dead spider had fluid in its eyes. He shuffled to his right, edging around the massive body for he was unwilling to draw any nearer. Then he saw it. The back of the bloated body was riven in twain, and within the vile shell was a cavern of black. It was not a spider at all, neither dead nor alive, but the skin of such a beast, shed as its owner grew. There was the cradle of foul spider-silk where the beast had lain whilst its new hide hardened. There were the scratchings of new claws upon the stone. There was the trail of the massive monster where it had left the cavern, abandoning its cast-off shell as it sought, ravening, for food to satiate its appetites after the long labour of discarding its old skin.

Aragorn's mind raced. A freshly-molted spider was a fragile creature, weakened from the effort of forsaking the old skeleton and all but defenceless until the new one hardened. But this shell was dry, the edges of the rift already crumbling. He knew too little of spider-lore to say how long it had been since its owner had abandoned it, but he knew that if the beast was gone from its sanctuary it was strong enough to hunt. Strong enough to kill. And after such an ordeal it would be hungry.

He had no hope against a creature of that size. Neither his knife, nor his strength, nor his agility, nor all his wits would avail him against such a foe. Yet perhaps all was not lost. Where might and wisdom could not aid him there was still haste – and luck. He was coming from the wrong direction: the creature would not look for prey in the heart of her sanctuary, but in the pass below. For he knew now where he was. In the land of Mordor this place was both feared and revered, and when last he had walked these lands he had heard dark rumours of its cruel mistress, the guardian of the path that led to the old watchtower erected by the men of Gondor in the years after the last great war. Somewhere ahead, the tunnels ended and he might find the open air – if he did not find the great beast first.

He turned and hastened back towards the path. At the threshold of the cavern he cast back one brief look into the darkness where the shed spider-skin lay mouldering. A cold shiver coursed through his body, but he steeled his resolve and refused to submit. He could afford no fear now, not in this place nor at this time. Dim though it was, his one hope for life hinged upon a clear head and a fleet foot.

He could not risk a light any longer. He cast away the torch and ran unsteadily into the darkness. He was around the next corner even before the flames were swallowed by the putrescence on the floor. Sightless and struggling against the insistent terror that threatened to devour him, Aragorn stumbled on – he hoped towards his goal. In some recess of his mind he had to acknowledge the wry understatement of whatever mapmaker of ancient Gondor had named the place he now sought to reach. What scribe had so idly named it thus, and had they fully understood what lurked here? Here, above the Pass of the Spider, in a place still more terrible.

Torech Ungol.


	9. Spider Shadows

_Note: Chapter title from "The Mewlips"; __The Adventures of Tom Bombadil__; J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter IX: Spider-Shadows **

For all that Aragorn knew, he was stumbling in circles through the unending maze of tunnels. At least, cold comfort though it was, he knew that he had not found his way back to the cavern where the spider-skin lay rotting. As he advanced, his head and hands were slapped again and again with tickling tendrils that he knew now to be cobwebs. It was one of those rare instances when he would have preferred ignorance to knowledge. His skin was crawling beneath his clothes, as if tiny, many-legged creatures were scuttling up and down his limbs and his torso.

The last traces of the soothing but deadly complacency that had plagued him in the blackness behind were gone now, replaced by the battle-ready alertness that the long years had honed to an instinct. Despite the noxious darkness Aragorn's senses were awake to the slightest change in his environment. His ears picked up the faintest sound, the most fleeting whisper of the gravid air. As he moved forward with what haste he could, he listened ever for the clicking noise of spider-pincers or the scrape of claw-tipped legs that would herald his death.

Yet on he ran, and neither death nor the spider had found him yet. Though he tried to keep his mind solely on the present peril, his thoughts kept drifting back to everything he had ever heard about this place and the fell shadow that dwelt here.

In Gondor the truth was all but forgotten, recalled only in the name of the pass and the hive of caverns above it. In his time in the service of Ecthelion, Aragorn had never heard more than vague legends of some evil in these caves, and in his youthful ignorance he had imagined a colony of creatures like those that plagued Mirkwood. Even the Rangers of Ithilien, who laboured near this terrible place, could say no more. Yet in Núrn the Pass of the Spider was hailed as a place of unspeakable terror. He remembered now, too late, the rumours that he had heard but little heeded, whispered by the servants of Sauron and the wretched slaves misused by them, of a single, almost demonic presence in the Pass.

It struck him with a dawning horror that slaves and captives for whom there was no further use had at whiles been sent to Cirith Ungol to meet their end; sacrificed, doubtless, to placate the beast that dwelt within.

He stumbled as the passage changed direction, and skidded to his knees against the unnaturally smooth rock-wall. Aragorn slapped his hand against the stone in frustration: he could not afford weakness now. With an effort he hauled himself to his feet and struggled on, but fear and weariness and time unknowable spent in this gloom had drained much of his reserves of strength. As he groped ahead through the blackness he began to despair of ever finding his way out of this dreadful pit.

He beat back that thought. If he allowed hopelessness to take hold, the dark would devour his mind as it had threatened to do before. As the memory of that – that _thing_ in the cavern behind once more eclipsed his reason, he was driven back into the realm of ancient tales, and accounts of that creature, a spirit of evil in the form of a spider, who had with Morgoth ravished Valinor. Ungoliant, who had drained dry the wells of the Blessed Realm and devoured the light of the Two Trees, belching forth darkness in its place. It was said that the great spiders of Mirkwood were her long descendants, but whatever had wrought the web of blackness in which he now was caught was nearer offspring than that. Aragorn understood now his former aloofness to his plight and the fog that had so consumed his senses. This darkness was more than the ordinary gloom of the subterranean paths of Middle-earth. It was the product of an evil thing, in malice equal to Sauron himself, that had dwelt in these hills through the long ages, forgotten by all save the servants of the Enemy who dwelt upon her threshold.

Again his face was brushed by a foul strand of spider-silk. Panic was swiftly mounting, and he fought it yet again. He could submit to terror still less than he could exhaustion. He had faced more desperate situations than this, he told himself bracingly – though a niggling voice from deep within retorted that he could count such incidents upon his thumbs. Still, he resolved, he would not lie down in the dark like a sheep ready for slaughter. He refused to wait for death; he would run until his legs gave out beneath him, and then if needs must he would crawl, but he would never submit.

_lar_

He no longer knew how long he had been walking. His back ached and his weary feet pained him. His head felt muddled, and he knew it was as much for want of rest and nourishment as it was because of the spell of the darkness. Now and again he dared to take the risk of lifting the orc's water-skin to his lips and sipping at the tepid fluid within, but for the most part his hands were needed: the left to feel his way forward along the concave wall, and his right to hold his knife. At some point he had dropped the small throwing-dagger, but he had not noticed where or when. His limbs were shaking with exhaustion and that particular enervation that came from labouring too long in a state of heightened alertness, awaiting a calamity that never descended. All that he wanted was to sink to the ground and draw his cloak about himself and sleep... just for a few short hours. Sleep...

'No!'

His voice echoed in the blackness, startling Aragorn out of the dangerous reverie into which he had sunk. He held his breath. Had anything else heard his cry? Was this the mistake that would summon the monster? But only the silence greeted him: the silence and the perpetual reek.

'No,' he whispered, and the word fell deadened at his feet. 'You cannot die here, you fool. Come now, recreant: onward! Onward.'

And onward and onward. There was a limit even to his endurance, and Aragorn feared that he would soon surpass it. If he did not receive some sign of progress soon, his flagging resolve and his weary body would no longer be equal to the task of keeping him on his feet. He dared another mouthful of water. There was food in his pack, and he had only to halt for a moment to dig it out, but the thought repulsed him. Not only pausing, but the idea of eating anything in this vile place. Though he knew it had been many, many hours – perhaps a day or more – since he had last taken nourishment in that first tunnel, he could not bear the thought of food. Closing his eyes, for they were useless anyhow and it soothed the tension in his brow to lower his lids, he groped forward again.

Suddenly he became aware of a change in his surroundings. It took him several steps before he realized what it was that was different, but when he did his pulse quickened. Though the darkness was still as pervasive as before, and the air still as foul and his body still as sore, the floor beneath his feet had changed its incline. He was moving downward now.

He did not dare to hope that this might be a sign that he was proceding in the right direction, for it might just as easily mean that he was descending further into the lair of the spider, but at least with the pull of the earth in his favour his progress was less painful. He hastened down the sloping tunnel, booted feet skidding and slipping against the slick stone. Then suddenly the grade was flat once more, and he drew himself up sharply as the wall beneath his fingers abruptly ended. This unexpected development almost thrust him into the panic that had been threatening for hours, and he stumbled backward until his back struck stone. He groped about, and found the place where the rock wall turned a sharp corner. Across the gap only a little way there was a second such junction. He had reached the intersection of two passages: the relatively narrow one through which he had passed, and the one in which he now stood.

Despite the thickness of the stinking air, this space felt more open than the other. Cautiously, Aragorn stepped forward, fingers outstretched in the darkness. One step, two. Five, six, seven... and at last he touched the far wall.

It was wider than any passage he had yet encountered, and at first he wondered whether he had found his way into some other cavern, but a few minutes' walking with the wall to his left convinced him that this was indeed another tunnel. He halted then, with his back to the wall, and tried to consider his course. What sense of direction he was able to retain in such dark places had long since forsaken him. Whether he was walking Eastward or West, North or South he could not say. Nor, he was forced to admit, did he particularly care. He could not consider his hunt now, when he was in danger of becoming prey himself, and after so long in this vile place he longed only to see the open sky again and to breathe air not permeated with evil and spider-shadows. Therefore, lost as he was one way was as good as the other. He continued forward.

Then suddenly, there was a sound: a sharp, creaking shriek that ended in a long hiss. It was followed immediately by the sound that Aragorn had been dreading: the clattering click of spider-legs on stone. It was coming from up the passage, rapidly approaching. The Ranger's eyes grew wide and he flung his back against the wall, flattening himself along the stone. He tightened his grip on his knife. If it was to end here, he would at least wound the dread thing.

Again the spider shrieked. It was a terrifying sound, thin and high-pitched and despite the miasma that seemed to swallow sound, disconcertingly loud. It was near indeed now, and Aragorn braced himself to spring into hopeless battle. The scuttling legs sounded off the stone, shuffling, scrambling, ticking against the ground. Nearer and nearer and nearer still, until Aragorn could feel the wind of their motion upon his outstretched left hand.

Then with another blood-curdling cry the creature was past him, careening off into the darkness behind. Aragorn stood frozen, unable to quite believe his good fortune. Was it possible that it had not sensed his presence? Was it even conceivable that it could have passed so near and failed to notice an intruder in its lair? Shaking off his shock as swiftly as he could he turned and began to run, in the direction opposite to that in which the creature had fled.

_Fled_. The word struck home even before he heard the creak of joints before him and the low, venomous hiss of a huntress rapt in the chase. Even as the light of some dim, luminescent mass began to advance upon him, Aragorn realized that what had passed him was not the beast upon whose horrible hide he had stumbled far above. It was some other wretched creature, like him a captive of this mire of blackness, and it had sped past him without notice because it was driven by fear of what lay behind.

He could feel the vast bulk of the creature surging forward through the tunnel. The sickly glow was surely the spider's vast underbelly – the pallid ghost of which had been preserved on the forsaken shell. The rattling and creaking of its joints as great legs strove to support the massive body filled Aragorn's ears. In that moment his mounting terror overwhelmed him completely, and he forsook all hope of inflicting some hurt to his foe ere he perished. Unable to master himself, he flung his body down upon the floor of the cave, arms thrust up to shelter his head, and he huddled there, incapable of motion, as the beast swept towards him.

A claw landed close by his elbow. Another grazed his leg, scoring his garments and sending a fiery pain into his loins. There was a venomous hiss and the snapping of pincers and a stench unbearable even after so long in this noxious atmosphere. Aragorn braced himself, prepared at last for death...

And the creature was gone. Away it swept, carrying its vile reek with it. Heedless of the wretch cowering upon the floor it surged off into the darkness in single-minded pursuit of its prey.

_lar_

Aragorn scrambled to his feet, nearly tumbling again as pain shot up from his wounded thigh. He bent, clapping a hand over the place the spider-claw had struck, attempting futilely to stem the bleeding. His every instinct told him to run, as fast and as far as he could in the direction opposite the passage of that monstrosity. But reason overtook him in the time it took his hammering heart to force out three tremulous beats. The spider had come _from_ the direction he faced. If he ran forward, he would be stumbling into its lair. When it returned – and it would return – he would not be so fortunate as he had been just now.

The other spider, the smaller one, had fled down the passage for a reason. That way had seemed to it the surest escape. Long years in the wild had taught Aragorn that beasts and birds knew best the way to water, or sustenance, or safety, and it was a foolish man indeed who did not heed their signs. He groped on the ground for his knife, taking it in his left hand, for his right was clutching his scored leg. Then he turned in the direction that the two beasts had raced.

Some shard of good sense protested that he was a fool for running towards such a foe, but Aragorn did not heed it. He was pushed beyond desperation now, and he had no longer the luxury of sober second thought. There was only a primal instinct, nurtured and heightened by the ceaseless struggle for survival that had been his adult life. If there was a way out of this place, that was the way that the smaller spider would have chosen. And if he overtook the larger beast before she found her quarry, the kill might distract her just long enough for the Ranger to escape.

He broke into a loping, limping stride, moving as swiftly as he could. Now and again he felt a jarring pain from his freshly-injured leg, but such was his desperation that he heeded it not. His chest ached from the exertion, and his head swam as the foul air failed to furnish sufficient breath. A vague white form coalesced before his eyes, swimming upon the very cusp of unconsciousness...

And then he realized that it was not a product of his failing faculties at all, but a brightness in the passage ahead. Aragorn released his hold on his wound to catch himself against the tunnel wall before utter astonishment overcame him completely. He halted for less than a breath, however, as he ran forward towards the light, praying desperately that he came not too late, and that the lesser spider was offering its pursuer adequate distraction.

As he staggered out of the tunnel and up the slope to the open cleft of the pass, the light blinded him. After so long in the darkness, even the gloom of Mordor seemed unbearably bright. Furiously, frantically, Aragorn blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. When at last the vague shapes about him hardened into bleak reality, he looked about desperately for any sign of the spiders.

A cry from above alerted him, and he turned, casting his eyes heavenward. There, upon the shelf of stone overhanging the entrance to the tunnel, the one beast chased the other. The first spider was no larger than the monsters of Mirkwood, Aragorn noticed. The other, vast beyond imagining, was too terrible to behold. She was scrambling after the lesser creature, and as the Ranger watched she caught him between her mighty forelegs. From her spinnerets a thick rope of silk shot, and she looped it around the flailing legs. Then there was a horrible noise as the great spider sank her fangs into the lesser, injecting within him the paralytic poison that would keep him quiet and complacent whilst she wrapped him. Then she would drag her unhappy mate back into the darkness behind and devour him, sating one appetite with the body of a creature that had fed another.

Fighting the urge to vomit up the meagre contents of his stomach, Aragorn knew that if he was going to fly, this was his only chance. Tearing his eyes away from the horrific spectacle above, he ran. In his exhaustion he stumbled, falling with his face in the dust, but somehow he scrambled up, dragging his hurt leg after him. Down the winding way he ran, gulping greedily the cold air of a mountain winter – foul with the reek of Mordor, but fresh to lungs grown accustomed to the stink of the spider. The tunnel was far behind him now, and he heard no sign of pursuit, but still he ran. He ran until he could run no more, and then he loped onward at a pace less than his most lazy stride, his good leg trembling and his right a leaden weight of pain. He clutched the cliff face and dragged himself onward, until at last he stumbled upon an uneven place in the path and fell for the last time.

His last disjointed thought before he slipped from consciousness was that he still did not know which side of the Pass he had found.


	10. Down the Long Stairway

_Note: Excerpt from "Old Fat Spider" from "Flies and Spiders"; __The Hobbit__; J.R.R. Tolkien._

**Chapter X: Down the Long Stairway**

_Old fat spider spinning in a tree!  
Old fat spider can't see me!  
Attercop! Attercop!  
Won't you stop,  
Stop your spinning and look for me?_

Aragorn jerked back into the waking world with an anxious start. He did not want that! Let the spider keep on spinning, in a tree or in a cave or over the very Cracks of Doom, so long as it did not come looking for him!

His eyes opened, and when he saw only darkness he shook with a convulsion of despair. So it had been nothing more than a fevered dream: the lesser spider and the great creature of darkness, the desperate flight, his near escape. He had collapsed in the tunnels, and let slip his hold on awareness, and now that he had found it again he was still lost in the labyrinth of terror.

He was holding his breath and his lungs begged for air, but he hesitated. He could bear no more of the vile reek of this hateful place. If he resisted long enough, perhaps he would lose consciousness once more. But reflex, of course, was stronger than obstinacy, and he drew in a long ragged breath.

The air was still and stale, but free of the filth of centuries. Shocked, Aragorn breathed again, and again, as deeply as his ribs would allow. The effort exhausted him and he lay there gasping, curled on his side with his face pressed to the rocky ground. The stones were dry. The air was clean. Far above he could hear the whisper of the wind as it swirled around mountain crags.

Relief so great as to be shameful flooded Aragorn's body as the tension in his limbs ebbed away. He had escaped after all. Where he was he could not say, but he was free and alive and unscathed, and he was not trussed up in spider-silk waiting for death. He raised a trembling hand to his brow and attempted to sit up. When a searing shaft of pain shot up into his abdomen he fell back with a stifled moan. Not unscathed after all, it seemed.

Slowly the memories returned, and he reached for his thigh, fingers probing gently amid the layers of sodden cloth until they found the rent. The lightest touch sent forth a fresh wave of agony, and Aragorn set his teeth so that he did not cry out. He knew not where he lay, nor what servants of the Enemy might be at hand to hear him.

He could feel fresh blood flowing from the place where the spider's clawed foot had torn him, and he knew that he had to tend the wound before his life flowed away through it. He had been lying on his right side, and doubtless that had stemmed the tide somewhat, but he could not risk neglecting an unknown hurt, here high in the mountains that looked down upon… where? Morgul Vale, or Gorgoroth? He could not decide which prospect was the most dismal. All that he knew was that at this moment either was preferable to the place from whence he had come, and that wherever he was he would be taking a different path out.

With a tremendous effort and much tugging upon his good leg, Aragorn contrived to sit up. He bowed his head over his lap, panting softly against the pain. When at last he had the mastery, he worked his pack off of his back and rooted around within for his sole remaining rushlight. It had snapped in two, probably when he had collapsed, but having escaped those tunnels with his life Aragorn was not in a frame of mind to be overly disheartened by a broken candle. He cut the rush with care, so that both pieces would be useable, and after a minutes' fumbling with flint and steel he had a flame.

Nothing could be seen through his layered garments, and so he removed his cloak and unlaced his cote, then braced himself against the pain and peeled away the blood-soaked wool and shredded linen that obscured the wound. The laceration was deep and ragged, digging down into the muscle. Unwilling to probe further with filthy fingers, he dug in his pack for the skin of orc-liquor and washed his hands with it, sparing a little of his precious drinking water to rinse the alcohol away. Cautiously he felt the borders of the wound, and was displeased to find them hot and inflamed. He dared not dig too deeply, but he did not think the claw had struck the bone. At least he sincerely hoped it had not. Looking at the wound, he wondered how the spider had inflicted such damage without even pausing to take notice – and how he had fled so far without falling. It was fortunate that the wound was along the outside of the thigh: the major vessels ran along the inside.

Still, he had to pack and bind the wound before he could move on. He considered his options. He might shred all that remained of his shirt to rags, and it would still not be sufficient to stop the bleeding. Yet he could hardly stuff such an injury with dirty wool. A compromise, then, was in order. He made short work of stripping off his cote and relieving his shirt of its remaining sleeve, reducing it swiftly to bandage lengths. With the linen he packed the wound. Then, cutting long strips from the hem of his cloak he bound his thigh tightly.

In the end he had lost almost a foot of the garment, but it was still serviceable, save for the long rent where the spider's claw had torn it. There were matching tears in the skirts of his cote and in his braies and his hose. He had to repair the rip in his cloak, at least, for abbreviated though it now was, it served him as coat, camouflage and blanket. Fortunately this was a swift repair, for there was no need to be careful of fit. Unwilling to squander his last yards of thread, he took sturdy stay-stitches at either end of the rent in his cote and at the base of the tear in his hose.

With his leg and his garments adequately mended, he knew he ought to extinguish the light. But he was sitting half-naked on the path, and it seemed the perfect opportunity to inspect himself for other hurts that might have gone unnoticed in his mad flight. He raised his hands to feel his head, and recoiled in disgust as he came away with a clump of malodorous cobwebs. With spastic abandon he clawed through his hair until he was satisfied that the last of the vile stuff was gone.

For a time he sat motionless, bent low over his bloodied lap. His cheeks burned with shame at the memory of his cowardice, even as his reason protested that, had his courage not failed him at the critical moment, he would have challenged the spider and been slain by her. He owed his life to a moment's lapse in valour – and to its equally swift return that had allowed him the folly of running after the huntress and her prey. There was no disgrace in survival, if one did not sacrifice the life or freedom of another to save oneself. Still, the memory of his weakness was bitter to bear.

His thoughts were muddled, and Aragorn realized that his unsteadiness was not wholly due to his wound and his humiliation. For uncounted hours, quite likely days, he had not troubled to eat. Small wonder, then, that he felt so feeble.

With shaking hands he hunted by the last glow of the sputtering rushlight for something edible in the depths of his pack. He did not feel quite able to stomach any of his increasingly rancid supply of meat, and the bread he had taken from the orcs was hard as stone and could not be gnawed by mortal teeth without first being softened – an effort to which he felt less than equal. That left only his untouched cache of walnuts. He took a handful and leaned back against the stone bastion beside him to take his poor supper.

He ate slowly and cautiously, drawing intermittent sips from his bottle and trying to gather his strength. The nuts were savoury and tasted distantly of salt, and though his water was tepid and stale it was clean. Gradually he felt the poisons ebbing from his mind as his scattered resolve returned.

By the time he had finished with his meal, the chill of the night was working upon his unclothed torso. He dressed himself quickly and sat shivering for a while with his cloak hugged tightly to his body. He realized belatedly that he had not finished assessing his physical state, but he had no energy now with which to resume it. He knew that he ought to move from here, to discover where and in what peril he was now, but that, too, was outside the bounds of his strength. Exhausted beyond even his endurance, he eased himself back down upon the hard ground, pillowing his head upon his pack. Sleep found him swiftly.

_lar_

The first grey light woke him. The perpetual gloom of the Ephel Dûath hung low over the ragged peaks of the Pass, like a rain-filled canopy sagging low between its tent-poles. Aragorn's head was throbbing insistently, and he groped for his water, taking two sloshing mouthfuls before he even attempted to sit up.

Every muscle ached, and his bandaged leg was throbbing. Once he was more or less upright, Aragorn squinted against the murky half-light to inspect his dressing. There were two darker patches on the strips of green wool where he had bled through the linen beneath, but both were dry to the touch. It seemed that the bleeding had stopped.

Resolve alone allowed him to rise, hopping awkwardly on his good leg. He cast about without much hope for a branch or a tree or even a sapling that he might uproot to use as a stave, but of course there was nothing. Tentatively, he shifted a little of his weight onto his injured leg. After the first dreadful piercing agony, the pain deadened to a dull, pulsing rhythm, and he found himself able to hobble about after a fashion, so long as he kept his right hand at the ready to catch himself against the great stone pikes that thrust up from the plateau on which he stood. He picked up his pack and returned his knife to its sheath, then cast a grim backward glance at the towering cliff that marked the entrance to the monster's lair, and began to move down the path.

He had not gone more than a hundred feet when his head began to reel and his vision flooded with black stars that swam and pulsed insistently. Fearful that he was about to collapse, Aragorn staggered inelegantly towards the next mass of stone and thrust his weight against it. He lifted his right foot up behind and shared his weight between his left and the rock as he pressed his face to the cold, rough surface and fought with all his power to keep from toppling over insensate.

When at last the fit passed, he remained thus propped against the stone, trying to force his reluctant mind to work. He was in no fit state to travel, but every minute he lingered here increased his odds of discovery and capture – or worse, that the spider once finished with her ill-starred mate would come forth looking for the lesser prey that had escaped her wrath. Furthermore, he had to determine which side of the mountains he was on, and to try – here his soul shrivelled a little within his breast – to rediscover the trail that he had lost at the forgotten door.

He had to eat something, he decided pragmatically. Perhaps that would renew some of his strength, and certainly after losing two or three pints of blood he had sore need of sustenance. Not daring to surrender his hard-won upright position, he worried his pack off of his back where he stood and dug out two strips of meat. They smelled unpleasant and tasted worse, but the flesh was not yet so far gone as to be dangerous and he managed to choke all of it down. He waited, at first patiently and then with increasing disquietude, for a renewal of strength that did not come.

Aragorn felt a small thrill of despair. He could not go on as he was, nor could he linger here, in this open and barren place without plant or animal or water to provide for his needs as he convalesced. There was nothing for it, then. Though he had sworn that he would not let himself be reduced to such measures, he rummaged in his pack and hauled out the half-empty skin filled with orc-liquor. Bracing himself like a child faced with unpleasant medicine, he dug out the stopper and took a swift swallow.

The loathsome brew burned its way down his throat and through his chest before sending out searing waves of discomfort from his stomach, but almost at once his hands ceased their trembling and his head grew more clear and the pain of his wound abated. With the grim satisfaction of one who knew that he had done what was necessary for survival, Aragorn bunged the skin again and hung it from his belt close by his water. The pack he returned to his back, and he set out again with iron resolve.

His progress was swifter now, for he felt little pain and the strength, for a time at least, had been restored to his limbs. He was quite sure that he could push himself harder than he was, for he knew the extent to which the orcs' potion concealed the hurts and weariness of the body, but he had no wish to do unwitting damage to himself. The cordial would not last forever, and when at last his store was gone his one hope was that his wound would have been given time to heal.

Presently he became aware of a red glow in the sky behind him and he turned, looking back. Between two crags in the cliff behind there was a beacon, a harsh carmine stain against the ominous cinereal clouds. It was set atop a great, smooth pinnacle of stone that Aragorn recognized abruptly as a tower on the far side of the Pass, beyond the lair of the spider.

'Cirith Ungol,' he whispered, and he felt the cold hand of despair upon his heart.

He had not passed through the mountains at all, but was still upon their westward flank. Worse still, he now knew himself to be caught between the two places in all the world that he least desired to walk. Behind and above was the Pass with its fearful guardian. Before and below lay the foul fens and deadly perils of Morgul Vale. Through one or the other he must now find his way, and he knew not how to choose. By rights he ought to take the way that Gollum had taken, but Aragorn knew not what that might be. He could not comprehend how any creature, however warped and craven, might willingly pass into Mordor unless pressed to gravest need, and yet neither could he see what might draw his quarry down into Imlad Morgul.

Aragorn surveyed the rocky place where he stood. Had Gollum ever walked here, he could have left no clear sign upon these stones. Indeed, it was not inconceivable that he lived no longer, having been consumed by the mighty spider into whose lair he appeared to have crept.

Yet logical though such an outcome seemed, Aragorn could not bring himself to believe it. The long years of labour could not have come to this: that his quarry had come to an ignominious end between the pincers of Ungoliant's unholy offspring, devoured with all his secrets beneath the Mountains of Shadow. Surely one who had eluded capture so long when pursued by a relentless Istar and the mightiest huntsman in Middle-earth could have contrived to escape the shadows of the spider, when even a blindly bumbling man had managed to do so.

If Gollum had come this way, he would have left some memory of his passage, however faint. Most likely such evidence would be found in the shadows among the crevices and crannies in the stone, not only because of the rubble gathered there but also because it was in such places that the creature seemed to secret himself. Aragorn could not count the times that he had found the imprints of spindly toes or the mark of a heel or a heap of gnawed rodent bones in such corners. So slowly, methodically, he began his search, working ever downward away from the spider-tunnels and towards the Morgul Vale.

_lar_

Daylight – or what in this land passed for daylight, though even when the sun was at its zenith in some forgotten realm far above the shadows it was still nothing more than a murky gloom – slipped away while Aragorn hunted for any sign of his quarry. Twice he dosed himself with the orc-cordial, and once he stopped to force himself to eat a little. When at last he drew within sight of the edge of the plateau, he was swiftly losing what little hope he had.

Furthermore it seemed that he had come to a dead end: there was no further path, but only the mountains above and a ravine far below. Yet as he stood, perplexed, Aragorn recalled another scrap of rumour gleaned in the years of his great errantries, when a bold and valiant young man had delved deep into the hearts of Men to discover both the good and the evil that dwelt within. Cautiously, he drew near the edge and looked down.

The plateau stood across a great cliff, steeply sloping upward from the mountain passage below. From this dizzying height in the gathering night Aragorn could make out little of the path far below, but it took little acuity of sight to discern the stair, a winding way of carven steps that clung to the face of the cliff and wove to and fro as it made its descent. Carved a long age ago by the stonemasons of Meneldil as an access to the watchtower of Cirith Ungol, these stairs were the only way into the Pass. They were not intended as a means of exit, for in those days Gondor had striven to keep contained the evil things that dwelt in the realm of their vanquished foe. Steep and treacherous and nearly three thousand years old, the stone steps were no fit road for a sane man.

Yet Aragorn was no longer sure that he could be counted among the sane, at least not where this search was concerned. The reasonable course of action would have been to cast aside the hunt in Harondor. The judicious decision would have been to admit defeat and return to the North. His choices since refusing to take the sensible path had all bordered on madness, though it was some comfort at least that he could not be counted reckless. He knew well his limits, and though he had pressed them in this journey he had never yet surpassed them. He did not fear to take these stairs, if only he might find some sign that this course was the one that Gollum had chosen.

Yet his alternatives were threefold: go down, remain here, or turn back. He was not entirely certain that he could have found the courage to do the last, even had he been following a fresh and incontrovertible trail. To venture into those tunnels again, to enter Mordor, upon a half-chance that Gollum _might_ have turned East was beyond senseless. If he remained here, he would eventually starve, or worse. Therefore there was no choice but to descend.

The first steps were treacherous, for the way was narrow and steep, and there was nothing to cling to. Furthermore, Aragorn was putting his off-foot forward, which proved awkward, but he did not dare to thrust his full weight down upon his wounded leg, orc-draught or no. He lowered his left foot first, and then placed his right upon the same step, instead of alternating as he would ordinarily have done. When he had progressed far enough that he could grip the cliff he let fall a soft sigh of relief. He leaned heavily upon the wall each time his left foot lifted.

The descent was excruciatingly slow. Aragorn could not say how long he climbed, ever wary, ever anxious lest he should slip or his bad leg should fail him at a critical moment. He watched his boots carefully until the dark fell about him and he could no longer discern the black leather from the black rock. He attempted to sound each step before entrusting it with his weight, but now and again a stone would give way or crumble beneath him, and only luck and lightning reflexes saved him from tumbling into the ravine.

Down and down the stair wound, and the hours of night dragged by. Aragorn measured time only by the failing of the orc-cordial and his need to drink again. Twice he quaffed of the vile potion, then three times and four. The pain was resurging yet again when his left leg jarred unexpectedly upon uneven ground. There was a moment of horror as Aragorn stumbled forward, fearful that he would fall, but then he realized that he had reached level ground at last.

He was still high upon the mountain, for he could hear the wind whistling in the gorge far below, but the stairs had come to an end. The night was black as ink, and he could not even see his own hands, but in the ravine there was a light, a distant sickly glow. As he stared it began to take shape, and he could feel the blood draining from his face as his innards withered and a fist of dread closed upon his heart. Minas Morgul.

Resolutely, Aragorn turned his face away, drinking in the darkness of the path. He could not think on that now, weary as he was and half-drunk upon the orc-brew. Best to sit awhile and rest. When day returned, he would scout around for any sign of Gollum, and then seek out a way down into the valley. Though naught but danger and terror awaited him there, he had chosen his course and he would hold to it. Though hope was all but lost, he still had his stiff neck and his obstinacy. His pride would hold him to the course a little longer.

As he eased himself to the ground, knowing that he would not sleep, he ground his teeth against the ache in his knees and the agony stirring in his right leg. He only hoped that his pride would be sufficient to sustain him through whatever ordeal lay ahead.

_lar_

Dawn brought little light and less hope. As soon as he could see his own body, Aragorn tugged back his clothes and inspected his bandage cautiously. The pain was nearing the border of unendurable, and he was drenched in perspiration despite the mountain chill, but he was not willing to unwrap it. He could not afford to have it bleeding afresh. In any case he had no cleaner dressing and the orc-draught was needed for other purposes now and could not be squandered to wash a wound.

His dried meat smelled worse than ever, and his stomach felt bilious after his dose of liquor, so he turned to the orc-bread instead. He pounded it almost to dust between two stones and ate the resulting crumbs with half a dozen walnut-shards. He drank the last dregs of water from his bottle and tucked the empty vessel in his pack. He had only the orc-skin left now: enough for three or four dangerously sparing days. Nor was his thirst slaked even at this moment: his tongue felt thick in his mouth and his throat ached. He would have to be more careful of the orc-brew.

With his meagre morning chores completed, Aragorn took in his surroundings. The plateau on which he stood overlooked the ravine above Morgul Vale, but he did not turn that way again. A little farther along, twin ramparts of stone rose high above, and the path became a winding passage that disappeared around a corner about a quarter-mile away. The Ranger wasted no time in following that road, if for no other reason than that it hid the valley and the ghastly City from his sight.

He walked for hours, his cloak wound about his arms and hugged tightly to his chest, for in the narrow passage the mountain breezes were whipped to a bitter wind. With his hooded head bowed low, Aragorn pressed on as the spell of the cordial ebbed away and the pain returned. Not daring to drink again so soon, he limped forward, placing as little weight upon his leg as he could. While he moved he kept his eyes upon the ground, watching for prints or any detritus that might speak to Gollum's passage. He saw nothing.

At last the path ended, though the walls of stone went on. Aragorn drew near the edge and looking down saw precisely what he had expected: a steep, straight stair descending into the cleft. The angle of descent was dizzying: the steps were at least three times higher than they were deep. He could not walk down: he would have to climb. Aragorn took another mouthful of the orc-draught, steeling his nerves while it dulled the pain of his wound and restored strength to his tired body. Then he lowered himself over the edge and proceeded to descend.

His fingers gripped the narrow ledges as his left boot groped for the next hold. Down he climbed, like one descending a ladder of stone. On three sides the rock surrounded him, but behind the gaping openness of the air was a constant reminder that a single misstep, the slightest mischance, would send him tumbling to his death far below. It did not do to dwell upon such things. If he fell, he fell. There would be no help for it.

Despite the numbing effects of the liquor, Aragorn's arms soon ached and his fingers were cramping. His left leg was unsteady after bearing his weight for so long, and his right was growing increasingly useless. The way was treacherous: the stones were worn smooth by the long years, and more than once the rocks crumbled beneath his feet or his hands. At such times only the proximity of the walls saved him: he could brace his long body against them just long enough to find a fresh hold.

He had been climbing long enough for his wound to reassert itself when he came upon a step already broken. There were many that had decayed and disintegrated over the centuries, but he stopped to examine this one, his fingers clinging to the ledge above and his left foot bearing him up from below whilst his right hung limp. For a minute Aragorn stared, unable to comprehend why, precisely, he was so entranced by this particular broken stair. Then he understood. The edges were rough.

Most of the others, broken long ago, were smoothed by time, slippery and dangerous. This step was ragged, coarse. It had been broken recently. Very recently.

Hardly daring to pray for good fortune, Aragorn cast about for some other sign, any other sign, of the creature whose weight had proved too much for that one aged stair. He found what he sought on the rock wall to his left: faint grooves scoring a chink in the stone. The marks of fingers dug hastily into the wall to catch a flailing climber. But there was nothing else; nothing to indicate what manner of being – Man or orc or Gollum himself – had passed this way, nor whether they had been coming or going.

Aragorn sighed softly. It would have been too much to hope for a broken fingernail or a scrap of clothing. He lowered himself further, looking for traces of the feet. Nothing.

This was what his hunt was reduced to, he thought sourly as his left foot groped for the next step and his right began to quiver with referred anguish from above. A jagged bit of broken stone, and a few scratches on the wall of a cliff. There was nothing to find, or he would have found it long ago. Why did he keep up this charade? Why did he continue to labour for an impossible end? Had he taken leave of his senses?

'No,' he grunted, gaining another stair and easing his aching arms down a few inches. 'No, I'm stubborn, not mad. Too stubborn by far. Too stubborn to quit, too stubborn to die.' His foot struck stone – not his toes, but a good three-quarters of his foot. The step was deeper: the stair was growing less steep. 'Too stubborn to fall!' Aragorn hissed triumphantly as he realized this trial, at least, was drawing to its end.

After a few more steps he was able to turn. His shoulders screamed in anguish as he lowered his arms and began to walk, slowly and carefully, down stairs that, while still rather more steep than he would have liked, were broad enough to accommodate his feet. As the steps widened further, his pace increased. Before he realized what he was doing he was taking them like a man instead of a tottering dotard: one foot on each step, hurrying downward as though oblivious to his cramping muscles and his aching knees. The relief of making tangible progress at last was so great that he was able almost to forget his pains as he moved forward.

But stubborn or not, his body did not forget. He had not eaten since the dawn, nor had he had the days of rest and nourishment necessary to replenish the lost blood, and the orc-liquor, marvellous though it was, wore off to leave its victim weak and enervated. When his right foot slipped upon a loose stone, wrenching his ankle, his leg could not compensate. In the moment of astonishment he failed to react swiftly enough, and he pitched against the stone. His left hip struck the edge of the step behind and his head barked against the wall as he tumbled down the stairs like a discarded rag doll.


	11. The Flowers of Morgul Vale

_Note: Bilbo's verse from The Fellowship of the Ring; J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter XI: The Flowers of Morgul Vale**

Aragorn made a single abortive attempt to slow his fall, but in his haste he reacted instinctively rather than rationally, thrusting out his lead foot to brace himself against the rock wall. The anguish of driving the wounded limb so violently against a hard surface blinded him, robbing him of both the will and the strength to resist the chaos that had engulfed the world. He did nothing more to arrest his progress, nor could he take any action to lessen what harm might come to him as he tumbled down the stiars.

It was over soon enough: he could not tumble forever and abruptly he found himself motionless. He lay there long, crumpled upon the unyielding rock, dazed and almost insensate from the pain. Distantly he berated himself. Fool, arrogant fool, to take his thoughts off his feet ere the danger was past. Though he could not quite remember how he had come to stumble, nor why he had failed to keep from falling, he remembered his vainglorious self-satisfaction at reaching a place where he could walk properly down the steps. Fool. Fool!

Try though he might, he could not muster much anger. A muzzy detachment was wrapping his mind in comforting folds. Why trouble to think, or to move, or to feel? Far better to remain here, still and insensible, until the inviting oblivion already encroaching on the borders of his mind surged forth to claim him.

Yet there was an insistent presence that refused to let him sink away into the gentle arms of unconsciousness. It needled at his brain and goaded him, pinching and throbbing and burning as mercilessly as the fires of Orodruin. Aragorn bit back a moan as the pain in his wounded leg refused to allow him the mercy of a well-earned swoon. Unable to resist it, he remained as still as he could, stalwartly enduring what he was powerless to control.

Slowly, tortuously, the anguish faded to a deep, searing discomfort and he was able to categorize and weigh the other, lesser pains. His left cheekbone stung, and he raised his unsteady right hand to touch a rough place rubbed raw on the rock. His fingers crept over his ear to the place where he had struck his skull on the rock: a hard swollen mass that ached until he touched it, whereupon it exploded into blinding agony for a moment before settling into a dull throb. Aragorn did not feel especially nauseous, which was ordinarily considered to be a good sign after a blow to the head. He was about to attempt to sit up when he remembered what had happened immediately before the knock, and terror seized him. If he had done serious harm to his left hip, he would die here, for without at least one good leg he would be entirely helpless, unable even to move from this spot.

Gingerly he attempted to wriggle his toes inside his left boot. When he found he still could, he ventured to roll his ankle. It, too, moved without pain. Encouraged, he began to raise his knee, drawing up his leg.

Suddenly, every muscle in the long limb contracted, twisting and cramping in fiery torment. Aragorn could not help a strangled cry as his hamstrings tensed into knots. The pain was familiar, but no more welcome for that. Ordinarily he would have leapt to his feet to walk off the cramps, but he could not do so now, with his wounded head and other unknown hurts. He screwed his eyes tightly closed and flexed his foot, slowly stretching the overworked leg. The taut muscles protested, making known their displeasure in fresh spasms of agony, but as he locked his knee and drew in a halting breath the knots loosened and the leg relaxed.

Aragorn exhaled through clenched teeth. At least he knew his hip was not fractured, he reflected dourly, slowly allowing his foot to go limp. There was that to be grateful for.

He braved the pain in his thigh to move his right foot. The ankle that had failed him was tender, but did not appear to be broken or even inflamed. He began to hope that he had had a little good fortune at last: if his only hurts after falling down stairs uncounted were a crack to the head and a scraped cheekbone, then he was lucky indeed. Gingerly he rolled onto his left side and tried to prop himself up on his elbow. He fell feebly back.

His eyes drifted closed. He had to get up: he could not remain here, exposed at the foot of the stair. He was in Morgul Vale – he could smell the sickly-sweet stench of decay even now. He was not safe here. But he was sore and he was weary, and he lacked the strength to stand. He toyed briefly with the notion of simply slipping into sleep with no regard for his continued safety, but in the end such folly was beyond his ken. His right hand groped for the all-but-empty skin hanging from his belt, and he tried to fumble with the knot that held it in place.

Unable to release it, he moved his left arm, and was met with a sharp pain that shivered up into his shoulder. Aragorn tensed, hugging the injured limb to his ribs. What had he done to himself, and more importantly, how severely would it impair his efforts to survive? He tried to raise his head to look at his hand, but the effort made the world spin precariously around him. Closing his eyes against the whirling gloom, Aragorn moved his right hand to unbuckle his belt. Then he was able to slide the strap off, and he tucked the skin between his elbow and his side as he worked out the stopper with clumsy fingers.

His hand shook, and he could not help but spill a little, but in the end he got the vessel to his lips and took a long swallow of the orc-liquor. He lay back, panting like an invalid and waited frantically for the vile concoction to take effect. When it did, the easing of the pain brought with it such merciful relief that Aragorn rather wished to weep. He restrained himself, and turned his attentions to gaining an upright position.

When at last he was sitting, leaning heavily upon the rock wall to his left, he looked down at his injured wrist. It was swollen and glossy, but did not appear disfigured. He probed the joint – an action that would have been excruciatingly painful had he been entirely sober – but he heard no grinding of broken bones, nor did he feel any shifting of torn ligaments or tendons. Merely a strain, then: doubtless he had landed strangely upon the limb at some point in his ignoble descent. Aragorn reached out, stretching his right arm to grab his belt and tugging it towards him until he could lay hold of his knife. Another four inches of cloak was sacrificed, and he wrapped his wrist tightly.

A cursory inspection of his leg told him that he was bleeding again, but slowly. Aragorn weighed his choices and decided to leave the bandage undisturbed for now. If the wound was not bleeding profusely, any interference with the dressing would only serve to do more harm than good. He would wait and see how he fared in a few minutes.

With his injuries for the most part tended, he was at last at leisure to assess his surroundings. He was at the foot of the stair. He could not say how far he had fallen: the worn stone steps gave no sign of his passage. Doubtless if he dragged himself up the stairs he would find traces of blood where he had scraped his cheek, and perhaps even the loose stone that had proved his downfall, but he had no strength to squander on such fruitless endeavours. Truth be told, he did not wish to know how far he had toppled: whatever the answer, it would not please him.

His pack was still on his back, and that was something for which to be thankful. His water-skin, still looped around his cast-off belt, had not burst, and that was something more. He still had his knife, and – he shook the other skin gently as he replaced its cork – a few drams of orc-liquor. On the whole, his position was less than favourable, but he had the means to survive if he could find the will, and determination had always been his strong suit. A grim ghost of a smile touched his battered face. He was not dead yet.

_lar_

Aragorn lingered there awhile, trying to rest. He could not bring himself to eat, nor did he dare to sleep, but he let his mind wander for a time in the realms of distant memory. Even with the blessed numbness of the orc-draught, his hurts ached and tickled, and his thoughts were ringed about with a fog.

He remembered the first time he had been wounded in the Wild. He had been sixteen years of age – Estel son of Gilraen, then, with neither sire nor heritage nor lofty and burdensome destiny – cocky and eager and imbued with the particular enthusiasm of one whose academic pursuits had at last found practical application. His foster-brothers had seen fit to take him with them on a patrol south of Imladris, down towards the Angle. Riding at dusk the two Halfelven warriors and their mortal charge had found themselves beset by a hunting pack of fell white wolves.

Though they had made quick work of dispatching the beasts, Aragorn had sustained a wound to his side where a particularly audacious animal had attempted to maul him with its foreclaws. The hurts were not deep – more like whip-weals than proper wounds – but nevertheless Elladan had insisted upon cleaning the marks and dressing them with care.

'Never leave a wound untended in the wild, Estel, no matter how small;' he had said as he applied balm to the injuries and his patient exerted every effort not to squirm with embarrassment. 'Even an injury like this can fester, and you may find yourself in dire straits far from any aid. If you are wounded and alone, find a place to secret yourself in as much safety as you can find, and rest until you can continue on your way without placing yourself in further jeopardy. A day of rest will do more to heal your hurts than any herb or tincture.'

Over the years, Aragorn had done what he could to heed this advice. He had found through repeated experience that there was almost always some thicket or cave, some hollow of the land where a wounded man might take shelter, there to rest and eat and gather his strength once more. But now he was in the heart of Imlad Morgul upon the very threshold of the Witch-King himself. Even if there was by some miracle a hidden place here where he might be safe from the ceaseless vigilance of the Nazgûl and their servants, he would perish of privation if he tarried here. There was no clean water in Morgul Vale, nor could the vile foliage be trusted. With his stores rapidly dwindling to nothing and his injured body demanding greater consideration than was its wont, he could not linger. His only hope was to retreat to more hospitable lands, where food and water might be found, and to attempt to convalesce there. The time had come to move on.

Cautiously, Aragorn got his good leg under him and with the help of the rock wall he managed to stand. He shook out his belt and eased it around his waist, giving consideration to his sore wrist. He buckled it snugly at the next-to-last notch. Then, arranging his cloak more comfortably upon his shoulders he limped forward.

The path bent in a sharp curve, and he stepped out onto a ledge overlooking the valley. His eyes were drawn inexorably across the desolate waste of putrescent blossoms and poisoned grasses to the eerie iridescence of the river, and thus to the winding road that led up to the Dead City itself. Though Aragorn tried to turn away, to shield his eyes from the horror of that dread place, even his will was not sufficient to overcome the spell of Minas Morgul.

It rose like a pinnacle of woe above the blighted plain: tall and fell with its great, ghastly summit rotating slowly in the swiftly-falling darkness. The high walls, once held to be wondrous and fair, glowed with an unearthly death-light that offered no illumination to the surrounding lands. The gaping maw that was the front gate seemed to draw to it all hope and courage, leaving only a vacuous pit of terror and hollow despair. As he stood transfixed it seemed to Aragorn that his very life was ebbing away, stolen by the silent watchers behind the empty windows of the City of the Nazgûl. Before such unearthly power, what hope had one man, wounded and alone in the Enemy's lands? How could he possibly defy the Shadow? What could a lone warrior hope to accomplish before all the vast might of Mordor?

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath as he attempted to startle himself out of the unnatural despondency that was settling on his soul. Though he could not shake off the despair, he managed at least to close his eyes and turn his head away. A chill wind blew, and he drew his cloak about himself, striving to reason away the Morgul-spell.

Verily he had no hope of assailing those walls. Even at the height of his vigour such a task was to much for any man. But he had not come here to challenge Sauron. That day might come, but it was not yet at hand. No, he reminded himself; he was here for a very different purpose. He sought only one small creature, one malicious wretch whose knowledge might be put to use to bring about the defeat of the Shadow. He did not need to ride to war: he had only to discover his prey, and in the interim to escape discovery himself.

With as much haste as his wounded leg would allow, Aragorn moved down the path. Night had fallen, and all was darkness save the unnatural phosphorescence of the accursed tower. Aragorn kept his eyes upon feet he could not see, and moved swiftly down from the ledge to a place where the path took on the glowing aura of the Morgul-road. Here the stench of the tainted blossoms grew stronger, and his head swam. There was nowhere to hide, and indeed he hesitated to halt in this place even for a brief respite from the labour of moving. Keeping his ears alert to any whisper of a patrol, Aragorn moved forward with what haste he could.

The way was treacherous, for he did not dare to follow the road too closely and the terrain was uneven. As he went he crushed the stinking flowers beneath his boots, and their malodorous fumes grew swiftly nauseating. More than once he was obliged to halt, shaky and lightheaded from the reek.

Yet worse than any vile odour was the feel of the sightless Watchers in the haunted city behind. Long had Aragorn dwelt in fear of the Shadow, his identity hidden beneath many layers of disguise, and many names, and many deeds both secret and overt. Now it seemed the gaping windows of Minas Morgul bore down upon his back, stripping away the pretense and laying bare his shivering soul. With each step his heart sank deeper into despair and hope fled further from his weary heart.

So long had he laboured, so long had he waited, and no nearer were his goals now than they had been on an autumn's morn long years ago, when a gallant boy had strode forth from Imladris to pursue his destiny. Each year the Shadow grew, and each year the might of the Wise was diminished. Gondor was a land under siege, and however wise and capable Denethor was, he could not endure forever against the incursions of Mordor. As for the Dúnedain of the North, their numbers dwindled with each passing season. If the hour of reckoning came at last, who among them would remain to ride to battle with their lord?

He had hoped that the discovery and interrogation of Gollum might prove the catalyst that at last might turn the tides of fortune in their favour, but Aragorn had to admit that success in that quarter was beginning to seem as unattainable as a victory against the hosts of Sauron. If the creature had not been devoured by the spider months before, like as not he had been captured by the servants of the Enemy. He might even now be languishing in some hidden dungeon high in the circles of Minas Morgul. Mayhap he was a prisoner of the Eye, wracked with torment in the bowels of the Barad-dûr where he had long since poured out his secrets. Even at this moment, agents of Sauron might be descending upon the Shire, felling the Rangers who guarded its borders and cutting a broad swath of destruction as they rode for Bilbo's old home...

Aragorn could not breathe. He felt as if his lungs were collapsing under a great weight of unspeakable hopelessness. It was as if he were drowning in a sea of despair, sinking ever deeper into darkness, never again to resurface. Nevermore to draw breath in living lands, nevermore to look with hope to the Firmament, nevermore to lay eyes upon his beloved... nevermore...

At once he recognized the aberrant pall settling upon his heart, and his hand flew to the hilt of his knife. He dropped to his knees, welcoming the pain that shot up from his wounded thigh as it drove back the most insidious tendrils of despair. What he felt was not a genuine failing of hope and courage. It was the incursion upon his mind of an unseen evil: wickedness unclad was wandering Morgul Vale tonight. Though he could neither see nor hear the threat, he knew that he was not alone.

A Nazgûl wandered nearby.

By dark the Ringwraiths were a terrible foe, and he had neither blade nor fire with which to defend himself. Aragorn's limbs began to tremble, but he fought the rising tide of terror. Perhaps, he told himself, it was unaware of his presence. A ragged spy, wounded and alone, he might prove to be beneath its notice. He would cast a shadow in its mind, but if he remained in control, utterly unremarkable, it might pass him by. He had done nothing to draw attention to himself – or at least he did not think that he had. Perhaps, perhaps...

But he was afraid, and his fear conjured up visions of horror and desolation. It seemed that he could see all those he loved laid low by the Enemy's slaves: his folk, his friends, his kin, all gone. And Sauron raised upon a dark throne, and on his finger the Ring of Doom—

No. He must remain innocuous. Unworthy of the attentions of the wraith. He could not be the architect of his own defeat. He filled his mind with the only thing that came to him in his hour of need, rising up through the Morgul-mists like a swimmer fighting the deep, unseen currents that washed all others away. It was a scrap of verse, a simple riddle-song written with love by a kindly hobbit in a serene valley far away: its words meaningless in this land of despair. Meaningless, save only to him.

_All that is gold does not glitter,  
__Not all those who wander are lost;  
__The old that is strong does not wither,  
__Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

The second part eluded him, but Aragorn fixed his mind upon what words he could remember. It was better this way: the other words were bold, defiant, perhaps prophetic. Better that he remembered these alone: the puzzle-words, the hidden truths, the many layers of dissembling and disguise, protecting his mind as they had guarded his identity.

_Not all those who wander are lost..._

There was a whispering of wind and the air grew cold. Aragorn closed his eyes. He had encountered these wraiths before. He knew their power, but he knew also their weakness. If he could hide his mind from the searching thoughts of the Nazgûl... it was not seeking him, or it would have found him by now. There was still hope. He was older now. He was wiser. He was strong enough to resist.

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

He was shaking now, trembling with the bitter cold and with the terror that sought ever to gain a foothold in his heart. Bilbo's verses rang in his ears and his heart pounded. He felt that he would swoon, and then, then the Ringwraith would find him, would bear him off to torment and disaster in Isildur's fallen city.

_All that is gold does not..._

Then suddenly, like the summer storm that strikes with all its force and then abruptly dies, leaving behind the battered fields beneath a scattering of hailstones, the assault upon his faculties ceased. His mind was clear. The treacherous despair was past. The Nazgûl was gone, and in its place was only the empty night, and the reek of the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale. Quaking violently, overcome with the strain and with a surging relief, Aragorn hid his face in his right hand as the rest of Bilbo's rhyme came welling up from deep within his heart. Whether they were a portent of things to come, or merely a reflection of his friend's blind optimism and endearing good faith, they brought comfort sufficient to ease his soul even in this terrible place.

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
__A light from the shadows shall spring;  
__Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
__The crownless again shall be king._


	12. Fruitless Days

**Chapter XII: Fruitless Days**

Before the grey gloom of morning touched the mountains at his back, Aragorn reached the mouth of Morgul Vale. He halted at the foot of the slope that led up and out of the valley, eager to be gone but at the same time reluctant to tackle the incline. He was weary and the gash on his leg was throbbing against the bandages. With his spirit still reeling from the close brush with the Nazgûl, he wanted nothing more than a safe place to sleepbut there was no safety in these lands for him. He took a frugal swallow of the orc-cordial, and when his aches began to dim a little he started up the steep, winding way towards the cleft in the mountains.

This was perhaps the most dangerous stretch of road that he had walked in many years. The way was narrow and bereft of cover. If a patrol of orcs, or a messenger, or a spy were coming from the other direction, Aragorn would not be able to conceal himself, and he misdoubted his ability to fight, injured and exhausted as he was. There was nothing to be done about it, however, and hoping grimly for the best he followed the path with what haste he could muster.

For all his fears he was not assailed, and soon found himself moving down the slope, leaving Imlad Morgul behind. The stink of decay clung to him, refusing to dissipate though the distance between himself and the hated valley grew with every uneven step. Aragorn was beginning to wonder if he had at last slipped into madness, for it seemed his mind was deceiving him, but then he realized that his boots were fouled with the juices of the grotesque flowers over which he had trodden through the night. He stepped from the path into the grey, scrubby grasses in the hope that the residue would be worried away as he walked.

Even with the orc-cordial in his veins he felt treacherously close to falling asleep upon his feet. What a sight he must look, he thought to himself. Grubby and bloodied in his patched travelling clothes, shoulders stooped with weariness, his right leg lame and his left stiff from carrying so much of his weight. His bandaged wrist he kept tucked against his side, hugging his cloak close to his body in a way that was oddly consoling. Aragorn supposed that he ought to be very glad indeed that he was alive and well, neither slain by the spider nor broken upon the stairs nor even now weighed down with Morgul-chains awaiting torment in the Dead City behind, but at the moment he was incapable of enjoying such satisfaction.

The ground levelled off and the road grew straight. Abruptly Aragorn realized that it was not prudent to continue as he was. If he kept on this course, he would soon reach the great Cross-roads, where the ancient Númenorean highways met: East to Minas Morgul, West to Minas Tirith, South into the once-verdant hills of Harondor, and North – to the Black Gate. Not one of those roads appealed to Aragorn, and yet they were his only choices and the question before him now was which way Gollum might have chosen, had he ever passed this way.

Gollum. Aragorn stopped where he stood, his weary shoulders sagging still lower as he hid his face in his right hand. Not for the first time in fifteen fruitless years he cursed the creature whose name had become such a symbol of bitter and hopeless toil. In the hunt for Gollum he had endured greater privation, and weariness, and indignity than he had suffered for any other quest or errand in his life, and what had he to show for it? A few scraping tracks in a cavern left far behind, and a rumour that something had dwelt in the Ephel Dûath two or three years past. Now here he was, having since passed through darkness and blood and nameless horrors, no further along in his search than he had been a fortnight past.

And where would he go from here? How could he search for something without any evidence that he had even been in these lands? He had lost the trail yet again, and this time he had no hope left that he would find it.

His wounded leg was thrumming distractedly again. It would soon be time for another dose of the orc-liquor, but Aragorn was reluctant to take it. He had so little left, and it would be days yet before he would be able to move on without it. Besides, he was exhausted. He needed to lie down for a while, and if he could only root out a safe place he might even sleep a little. Perhaps the world would not seem so grim and hateful once he had found some rest. Limping rather badly, he veered off the road.

As he drew farther from the highway winding down to Morgul Vale, the undergrowth grew more dense and plentiful. Though the way was proportionally more difficult, Aragorn was glad of the hedges and bushes. For one, they would obscure his passage and might well provide cover for him when he found a place to halt. For another, where vegetation was plentiful there was hope of water. He doubted that he would have the strength to roam far afield in these next days, and he had only enough drinking-water to sustain life for another two days. He had no desire to repeat his experience in the mountain pass, and he did not doubt that if it came to that, death would find him more quickly this time.

He had not been walking long when he came upon a hollow in the lee of a great spur of the mountains. Out of sight of the road, it was bordered on three sides by rock, and the ancient gorse-bushes were high upon the fourth side. It was as good a place as any for a wounded man to hide, and Aragorn settled upon the ground, semi-prone with his back to a large boulder. He stretched out his wounded leg and tucked up his good one, rubbing his hams awkwardly with his right hand and hoping that he would not be visited by further cramping. Though he wanted to maintain a watch at least for a little while, he rapidly found himself incapable of resisting his enervated body, and he slipped into a deep, incautious slumber.

_lar_

He did not sleep long, for his leg was troubling him. For several fruitless days after that he moved northward as best he could, keeping to the foothills where the underbrush was thick. His marches were brief, for hobbled as he was he could not endure long without rest. The orc-cordial was all but gone, and he had resolved to use no more now, lest some greater need arrive later, but his pain was considerable and it wore upon his resolve. Though he remained as vigilant as he could he neither saw nor heard any sign of servants of the Enemy.

He was fortunate enough to find water – vile, sulphurous little rills trickled down from high places and met this most fundamental need– but now his stores of food were growing short. With the pain clawing at his appetite he was eating little enough, but he had to cast away his meat, for it was too rancid to eat, and that left him with orc-bread and walnuts. In this desolate place there was little to be found by way of wild food. There were whortleberry bushes here, but it was the very heart of winter now and their fruit was for the most part gone. He ate what shrivelled purple husks he could find, but for the most part he subsisted on bitter roots and the mushrooms that seemed the only living thing save the gorse that thrived in these grim climes.

He was tempted to turn westward, for he knew that in the heart of Ithilien both flora and game abounded, but he was apprehensive of crossing the road. There, too, he would have to be doubly wary, for he could no more afford to be taken as a spy by the Rangers of the Steward than he could to be captured by orcs. Though he did not doubt that under normal circumstances he could have walked in that land without detection, in his present state he would not take much tracking. He knew well the skill of the border-wardens of Gondor, for he had served with them long ago and taught them many of their tactics.

Furthermore, he knew that Gollum was not in Ithilien, and there was still some part of his mind that refused to forsake the hunt. Aragorn knew now that it was not hope: if he were to be honest, he would have had to admit that all hope of finding the wretch had been abandoned long ago. But his obstinacy lingered, as did the inertia of the chase. After searching so long, it seemed almost more difficult to stop than it did to limp forward another mile, scanning the undergrowth for hobbit-like tracks and moving ever northward towards the Ered Lithui.

In those miserable days while the year waned around him, Aragorn kept a wary eye upon his wounded leg. At first the gash bled whenever he chanced to disturb it. At last the first webs of scar-tissue began to form, but the wound oozed pus and fluid, and was most painful to the touch. He dared not chance a fire, which would have drawn unwanted attention from both the thralls of the Enemy and the soldiers of Denethor, and so he could not make compresses to leach out the infection. Instead he used one of the little throwing-knives to drain the wound from time to time, and each time he came across water he washed the bandages and applied them anew. A day came at last when the inflammation was all but gone, and after that the discomfort eased considerably and he was able to walk properly again.

_lar_

By Aragorn's reckoning, it was the twenty-second day of Afteryule, or by the calendar of Imladris the sixty-ninth day of hrivë. He had lost count of the days during his time in the bowels of the Ephel Dûath, but two nights ago the clouds to the West had lifted sufficiently that he could make out the ghostly outline of a great round moon in its first night of waning. Unless he had languished beneath the earth for twenty-four days, he reflected wryly, his estimate of today's date was near enough to the mark.

Certainly it felt enough like January. Even so far south, the air was cold and the wind nipped at the tip of his nose. There were no animals about, though high above him lean, avaricious crows circled like the harbingers of evil. Somewhere away to the west, the men of Ithilien were about the business of safeguarding the border-lands of Gondor, working together to ensure that the bridge at Osgiliath remained inviolate and that no servants of the Enemy crept across the river to worry the fertile lands beyond.

Aragorn spared a pang of longing for the camaraderie of his own men, far in the North. They would be suffering the privations and the dangers of a bitter winter now, wandering through deep, uncut drifts of snow by day, and by night huddling together around meagre campfires built on ground for which they had been obliged to dig. Yet Aragorn would gladly have traded this barren place where even the nights were not sufficiently cold to bring frost for the frigid expanses of home and the company of his folk. With the perils of Imlad Morgul now a fortnight and more behind him, he found the loneliness creeping inexorably back into his heart. He longed to speak with someone, with anyone at all. He had not expected to miss Gandalf's company so soon, but miss him he did. It would have been well worth the ribbing for his self-endangerment that he would doubtless receive to hear the wizard's voice again. These empty lands offered a bitter road to the solitary wanderer.

A sound rent the stillness of the twilit evening, and Aragorn dropped at once to one knee so that he was hidden by the gorse-bushes all about. The motion that a week ago would have brought excruciating pain from his thigh now engendered merely a sharp twinge into the muscle. The Ranger drew his knife, listening warily. The noise repeated itself; harsh and unpleasant even to ears that longed for the voice of another: the discordant syllables and strange fricatives of the Black Speech.

The speaker was too far away for Aragorn to discern precisely what was being said, but the voice grew nearer, and with it the noises of heavy feet and thick blades idly swinging against the bracken. He heard the grating sound of orcish laughter.

Hastily he cast about, looking for the best place to conceal himself. When no such hiding-place seemed forthcoming he cast about instead for the position of most tactical advantage. He settled swiftly upon a space of clear ground some yards behind him. There he might stand free of the undergrowth, while any assailant would be obliged to grapple first with the gorse. Swiftly and silently he crept to his chosen place and crouched there, ready to spring up at the first challenge.

The orcs were drawing nearer, and the ground was groaning beneath their feet. It was a large party – a dozen or more – and as they drew nearer Aragorn could at last make out their words.

'... stinking _tarks_ think they can go where they please – pah! That'll teach 'em to go sticking their noses where they don't belong!'

'Did you see that tall one bleed? You think he's dead yet?'

'No telling,' grunted the first orc. 'It's just madness, isn't it, carrying away their wounded and their dead?'

'Selfishness, more like. They just don' want us to enjoy 'em.'

'You ain't asking the right question,' said another, and Aragorn's pulse quickened as he recognized the voice of the orc whose life he had spared. 'The question is _why are they nosin' around so far north in the first place_? What're they up to? What're they planning?'

'Who says they're planning anything?' the leader asked, snorting as he hacked at a nearby gorse-bush. 'They're jus' _tarks_.'

'Yeah?' Third Voice sneered. 'Then tell me why Lugbúrz is massing armies. Tell me why the City's sendin' out spies! Tell me why there're _tarks_ in the mountains—'

'Aw, not this again!' a reedy voice moaned. 'I'm tellin' you, you didn't meet a Man what can understand our speech – an' if you did, then it was one of _their_ Men and no _tark_.'

'Easy mistake to make,' another put in. 'Pale faces, dark hair, soft underbelly: they all look alike.'

'I'm telling you, it was a _tark_! Fire in his eyes, and a pale Elvish sword... but he knew our speech an' he let me go!' protested Third Voice.

'There you 'ave it: why'd a _tark_ let you go? It must've been a warrior from the City.'

'Why would a warrior from the City kill all the others?' Third Voice argued, as mulish as ever. ' 'E let me go 'cause I answered 'is questions.'

'Questions 'bout what?'

' 'Bout that thievin' sneak was worrying our patrols two year back,' said Third Voice. He was beginning to sound rather defensive, and the forward progress of the company had halted. Aragorn wondered whether the others had the little dissenter surrounded.

'Another myth you mountain sentries dreamt up; just a fib to explain missin' supplies!'

'The_ tark_ didn't think so; 'e took me serious.'

'_There weren't no _tark_!_' the leader bellowed.

Third Voice said with the wounded air of one whose dignity has been impugned beyond hope of conciliation; 'Well, _they_ believed me.'

'Pah! _They _would. _They_'ve got it in their heads that there's some kind o' conspiracy brewin' behind every door. You'd think _they_—'

'You think _you'd_ have the good sense not to say such things out loud,' another orc hissed. 'That's treasonable, that is.'

'So what if it is? We're miles from the Road and days from the City. They can't hear me here.'

'Somethin's listening,' Third Voice whispered. 'We ain't so alone as you think we are.'

'This another one of your hunches?' demanded the leader, scorn dripping like venom from his lips. 'Dunno why you're wasted on this duty: maybe you oughta be up in the Tower counselling the Eye 'isself.'

'I'm a loyal City soldier, same as you!' snapped Third Voice. 'You'd do well ta listen to me!'

' 'E might be right, Ghashmaz,' ventured the one who had spoken of treason. 'Las' time 'e said something was about, it was them _tarks_.'

'Fine, then: let's move on!' Ghashmaz grunted. 'But if I hafta 'ear about your mysterious warrior one more time, you maggot, I'll gut you like a pig an' leave your entrails for the crows!'

Their march resumed, and Aragorn waited at the ready as they stomped past perhaps fifty yards from his hiding-place, felling the venerable gorse-hedges as they went. At last the noise of their passage faded as they marched away Southwards, towards Morgul Vale.

He had not wish to fall afoul of such a company, nor did he want to encounter Third Voice again. When they were well away, Aragorn got to his feet, rubbing idly at his thigh which had stiffened after so long crouching beneath the bushes. Sheathing his knife but keeping it loose in the scabbard, he started north with all haste.

_lar_

Through the night he walked, and into the next day, too. At what he took to be noon – though the smoky clouds hung low and made it difficult to be precise about the time – he reached the end of the gorse-forest. Here the land was rocky and grey, too barren to support even these hardy plants. Aragorn halted in the last thicket, and under its cover he slept a little. At dusk he rose, and gathered his possessions, and started northward again.

Soon he realized that he was moving east: though the mountains were still to his right the aura of the rising moon was almost directly ahead. He had at last reached the end of the Ephel Dûath where they joined the Ered Lithui, the tall ashen range that marked the northern border of Sauron's land. Here the red glow of Orodruin stained the sky from afar, belching black smoke into the air where it mingled with the clouds into a maelstrom of darkness. The barren land soon gave way to a treacherous path rent with fissures through which the foul emissions of the earth belched up to sully the air.

Aragorn made slow progress here, for the path was dangerous and there was no light save the carmine blight upon the horizon. The reek was terrible: brimstone and ash and evil mingling in the stagnant air. At dawn he halted in the lee of a great hill of slag, there to rest a little, though in this place he dared not sleep. Then onward he went, out of long habit keeping a sharp lookout for hobbit-prints among the debris. The grey half-light of day faded around him as he came upon a deeply rutted cart-road that wound about the towering mounds that were the detritus of the mines of Mordor.

By his reckoning it was well past midnight when suddenly he saw the light of bonfires and torches away below. Instinct sent him onto his belly atop a mound of gravel and filth, and he crept so that he was peering over its edge, hopefully unseen.

Before him stood the Black Gate, monstrous to behold even by darkness. The great watchtowers, built by the Kings of Gondor in their golden age of triumph but long abandoned by a waning line and a weakened land. The stonemasonry of Númenor had endured the centuries of neglect, only to be captured by Sauron and rebuilt. Despite the night about him, Aragorn could see the shadows of the sentries upon the high walls, and he could feel the penetrating gaze of the watchers, ever vigilant lest some impudent spy should dare to assail the Teeth of Mordor.

It was not the first time he had laid eyes upon this place, and the horror of the Morannon alone was not enough to freeze his blood. Yet he lay there transfixed as his eyes followed the flames on the plateau before the gate. It was alive with activity: labourers and slaves quailing beneath orc-whips as they hauled forth the waste of Sauron's war-efforts. When he had walked these hills before, this place had been empty, visited infrequently by the carts of rubbish and useless stone. Now there were dozens, hundreds of folk below, toiling in this last part of the process by which the hosts of Mordor were armed and armoured. If such was the effort at the end of the line, what vast labours were taking place in Gorgoroth itself?

Dismay rendered the Ranger utterly immobile. He could do no more than stare, whilst his mind flooded with dread and with images of utmost disaster. What hope had Gondor before such a force? What would befall the West on that dreaded day when Sauron saw fit to pour forth his armies against the Free Peoples? And if upon that day the One Ring was on his finger...

Abruptly his instincts were screaming at him to rise, to move, to flee! There was danger here! But his limbs would not respond. He could only stare, horrified, at the spectacle before him as the ramifications of this sight sank home with the full weight of despair. There was a moment of clarity in which he was made aware of the dreadful truth that the pressing threat was not before him but behind, but by then it was too late.

'Well, well, what have we here?' a lilting voice sneered as a clawed hand closed on Aragorn's shoulder and an iron-shod foot settled upon the small of his back. 'Seems the little maggot was right: _tarks_ nosing about where they've no call to be. P'raps you can answer a few of our questions, eh, my pretty?'


	13. An Unwilling Guest

**Chapter XIII: An Unwilling Guest**

Aragorn arched his spine. As the hob-nailed boot shifted he launched himself to the right, heedless of the claws digging into his shoulder as he rolled onto his back. The orc was caught by surprise, and stumbled. Aragorn managed to get his left foot under his body, and with his right leg he pinned the orc's feet against the ground, pressing upon the thick ankles. A sharp pain shot into his chest as the grip on his shoulder tightened, but his assailant fell upon the slag and Aragorn sprung atop him, grappling with the flailing limbs as he attempted to overpower the orc.

Though by nature the Uruk-hai were stronger than Men, Aragorn had yet to meet one who could equal him in speed or agility. He would have made swift work of this one, too, save that the orc was not alone. Without warning, three more set upon him. Even as he drew his blade the knife was wrenched from his hand and his arm was twisted behind him. One grabbed his feet whilst the third took a fistful of his hair and yanked back his head. Resisting the urge to cry out at the unexpected pain in his scalp, Aragorn let his whole body go limp.

Abruptly the orcs let go, and he fell to earth with a heavy _thud_. As he had hoped, the three who had seized him relinquished their hold and he was left with only the first orc still clinging viciously to his shoulder. He closed his eyes, trying his utmost to look unconscious though his heart was racing and it took all of his will to steady his heaving chest. He did not dwell on recriminations for his folly: there would be time enough later. There were more important considerations at hand.

'Wha'd you do to him?' one of the orcs demanded.

'Do? I ain't done nothing!'

'You killed 'im!'

'Did not!'

'He ain't dead,' the first one snorted, pushing himself up. As he did so, he released his grip on the Ranger's shoulder.

Instantly, Aragorn was up and away, running as fast as his tired legs would carry him and groping in his pouch as he went. But the ground was uneven and the orcs were swift, and the necessity of fumbling with his sleeves slowed him. One flung himself upon Aragorn's ankles, sending him crashing painfully to earth. He tried to scramble up, but the orc was on top of him now, long arm crooked tightly around the Ranger's throat, cutting off his supply of air.

'That were stupid, _tark_,' the orc snarled, using the Common Tongue. 'Got 'im, fellas. I got 'im!'

He need not have made that pronouncement, for the others were on his heels. An iron-toed boot blasted into Aragorn's side and his legs ground against the debris that littered the ground as his body attempted to curl itself forward. His prone position rendered that impossible, but the orc straddling his legs pulled back, causing his spine to curve painfully. Aragorn's hands clawed frantically at the arm, trying to loose its hold on his neck. He could not breathe, and reality was becoming a very fuzzy plane of existence, threatening to forsake him at any moment.

'Now don't you try anything like that again, see?' said the first orc. A blade pricked at Aragorn's ribs. 'If you do, I'll skewer you like a rabbit. And no screamin', neither. We don't need those dunghill rats up here, makin' trouble and stealing credit. Understand?'

Aragorn reflected distantly that he ought to nod, but it was all that he could do to fight off the oblivion of asphyxiation. His eyes lolled in his head.

Apparently this was assurance enough, for the first orc boxed his comrade's left ear. 'Let 'im go before he chokes to death, you stupid fool!' he snarled.

No longing for dignity could stay the sundering gasp that shook Aragorn's body as he crashed back to earth. He gulped greedily at the air, coughing helplessly. His pack was torn from his back, the orc responsible for despoiling him severing the straps as he pulled it away. Then suddenly they were yanking his arms, twisting them behind him and crossing his wrists in a most unnatural position. Under other circumstances he might have struggled, but instead he lay there, fighting for air and hoping that they made quick work of binding him and that they did not detect anything strange about his forearms.

Mercifully they did not, though the bonds were cruelly tight. Aragorn gritted his teeth as one of them took hold of his shoulders and dragged him up onto his knees.

'Now bind 'is legs,' the orc said.

'Bind 'is legs? How're we s'posed to get 'im back to Ghashmaz if we bind 'is legs?' another demanded incredulously.

'Carry 'im, of course! I'm not takin' the chance of him bolting like that again!' snapped the first orc. 'This one runs like a stinkin' Elf. If he hadn'ta hesitated you never would've caught 'im. Bind 'is legs!'

'Why not 'is neck instead?' the fourth orc suggested. 'Then it's keep step or strangle 'imself, and we won't have to carry 'im. Too tall by far for hauling. Filthy _tark_.'

The hateful epithet was accompanied by a blow to the gut that left Aragorn breathless. In his moment of debilitation he scarcely noticed the noose of rope that was forced over his head. Only when it was drawn snug against his neck did he realize that they had fixed him on a halter like an animal.

'Where's 'is knife? _Tark_ steel ain't to be wasted,' the first one growled.

'It ain't _tark _steel: it's Elvish!' another whimpered. 'I threw it away quick as I could!'

'Elvish, eh? Best find it, then: Ghashmaz'll want to see that. Strange, isn't it? Lonely _tark_ poking 'round up here. Where are all your friends with their bright swords, my lad? Answer me that!'

The filthy claws took hold of Aragorn's chin, digging into the soft flesh under his jaw. The orc's demand was met with stony silence that seemed entirely inadequate to conceal the prisoner's dread. They were not even a mile from the Black Gate. If he did not make his escape in the next few minutes, he would find himself a prisoner of Sauron himself. But the orc's remark about dunghill rats seemed to ring in his ears. These were Uruks of Minas Morgul, not the servants of the Barad-dûr. Perhaps, then, they would not be so willing to turn him over to their northern rivals.

'How'm I s'posed to carry an Elf-knife?' the other orc whinged.

'Wrap it in a bit 'o rag, you lumbering donkey!' the leader snarled. 'Show a little initiative, or I'll have Ghashmaz send you to the mines! There'll be an opening now, with the maggot proved right again. Smarter that the lot of you, is our little hunchback!'

'Where'll I get a rag from? I ain't tearin' up my things just to carry the _tark_'s weapons.'

There was a tugging at Aragorn's shoulders as someone seized his cloak. Despite the absurdity of such concerns at a time like this, he could not help but flinch as a length of cloth was torn from it.

'There!' said the despoiler. 'Initiative, see?'

The discontented orc moved off, muttering bitterly to himself as he went. But he returned at last, and Aragorn found himself on his feet in the midst of a diamond formation, surrounded on all four sides. The one to his left held the end of the rope affixed to his neck, and the prick of a sabre at his back egged him on as the orcs began to run. He stumbled a little, but quickly fell into stride. It would avail him nothing to antagonize his captors: any further defiance would most likely earn him a savage beating, and if he was to have any hope of escape he had to keep himself as free from injury as he could.

_lar_

When Aragorn realized that they were heading southwest instead of due East, he felt something almost akin to elation. They were not taking him towards the Morannon: as he had hoped, they were making their way back towards Morgul Vale. Ordinarily he would have despaired at such a course, but Minas Morgul was many days' march away, and the Black Gate within shouting distance. The further they had to travel, the greater the opportunities for escape.

The middle-night was long past when the glow of a bonfire appeared in the distance, reflecting off the mountainside behind and illuminating the gaping mouth of a cave. As his escort egged him onward, Aragorn could make out dark figures around the blaze, and a strange shadow looming before it. Not until he was near enough to make a count of the orcs – in addition to his captors there were ten: too many to fight even if he could get his hands on his knife – did he realize that it was a tree. A gnarled old oak, to be precise, its heavy branches bare. Immediately he began to look for an orc with a bow. The Uruk-hai were poor climbers: if he could get out of their reach he might pick them off one by one.

His assessment was aborted when the orc holding his halter shoved him forward, kicking his feet out from under him so that he crashed to his knees. By some miracle, Aragorn managed to remain upright, or he would have driven his face into the dirt.

'Found our runaway, I see!' Aragorn recognized the voice of the one called Ghashmaz, as an enormous orc lumbered forward, sneering unpleasantly in the firelight. 'You took some tracking, let me tell you,' he sneered, taking a fistful of Aragorn's hair and twisting his face upward. Something of the Man's disdain must have shown in his eyes, for Ghashmaz scowled and said; 'Ain't no call for that, _tark_! What's the matter? Too proud to travel with the mighty Uruk-hai?'

A biting retort died on Aragorn's lips. He could not afford a witty riposte, however much it would ease his jangled nerves. His one hope was to avoid engendering too much animosity while he waited for dawn. They would harm him grievously enough without being baited.

The orc released his hold on the Ranger's hair, but the relief lasted only a moment: a heavy fist blasted against his jaw and his head snapped against his right shoulder as he very nearly lost his balance.

'Hold 'im up straight!' Ghashmaz ordered, and abruptly four claws were digging into Aragorn's arms, hauling up on his shoulders and increasing the discomfort in his painfully tingling hands. '_So_...' the orc-captain growled. 'What's a _tark_ doing out here all on 'is own? Lost all your little friends, have you? Or maybe you're a spy. Tracked you right 'round the mountains, we did. Why would you be headed North?'

Like the others, he was using Westron. Aragorn dared to hope that this meant they did not associate him with Third Voice and his story. Though most of the orcs were gathered in a circle now, eager to lay eyes upon the prisoner and doubtless anticipating the sport to come, the Ranger did not see his acquaintance among them. Had the company divided, perhaps? Half to return to Minas Morgul, the other half to follow – what? He wondered despairingly what sign of his passage he had left behind that had roused their interest sufficiently to make them turn around and follow him in the direction from which they had come.

'Answer me!' snapped the orc. 'Why were you headed North?'

'I was following the road,' Aragorn said, as impassively as he could. The answer was true enough, though by no means entirely forthright. 'It leads North.'

The carmine eyes narrowed, and Aragorn realized that he had miscalculated the intelligence of his opponent. A simpler orc might have accepted his answer as logical, but for one of his size Ghashmaz was uncommonly intelligent. He swooped low for his next blow, catching Aragorn under the ribs and driving all the wind from the Ranger's lungs. 'You rat, answer my question!' he roared. 'Are there others about? Were you meeting 'em?'

Aragorn made no reply. He had no answer to give, and in any case he was struggling to rediscover his breath.

'All right, then. What's your business?'

Somehow, he did not think that the orc would take a sympathetic view of his intentions. He held his tongue resolutely.

'Ask 'im if the tall one's dead yet!' one of the others put in. Ghashmaz, who had been drawing back to strike Aragorn again, whirled on his compatriot.

'What's it matter if the tall one's dead?' he snapped incredulously, slipping into the Black Tongue.

'I was the one who hit 'im. When I do a job I like to know if I did it proper,' the other explained defensively.

'Fools!' Ghashmaz snarled. 'I'm surrounded by fools. And you not the least, _tark_,' he hissed, reverting to Westron for the benefit of his prisoner. 'Tell us what we want to know, an' we'll kill you quick. Else it's yonder hanging tree for you!' He closed his hand on the noose-knot about Aragorn's throat and tightened it ever so slightly. 'An' if you think we'll string you by the neck _first_, you'd be sorely mistaken!'

Aragorn swallowed hard, partly out of dread and partly because the knot of the noose was now pressing down upon his larynx. He was familiar with the interrogation tactics of the Uruk-hai, and though he knew was fortunate that they were not under the command of a Black Númenorean, he found this to be less than comforting in the circumstances. The orc was leaning nearer to him now, and the stench of the hot breath issuing from between the jagged teeth was overpowering. He closed his eyes.

A stinging slap sang against his cheek, and the long nails drew blood at the root of his jaw. 'Look at me when I'm talkin' to you, _tark_!' the orc roared. He was growing ever more enraged, and Aragorn dared not provoke him further. The threat of torture meant that he had little hope of escaping unscathed, but if Ghashmaz tired of him and left him to the devices of the others they would surely beat him to death, or near enough as made no difference. He could taste their blood-lust already, and their growing dissention at their leader's postponement of their fun. If he could only outlast the night...

As ordered, Aragorn fixed his eyes upon the orc. 'I hope you do not expect me to answer you,' he said mildly, bracing himself for another debilitating blow.

Instead, a broad grimace that might have been intended as a grin spread its way across the unsightly face. 'Not straight away, I don't,' Ghashmaz hissed. 'Truth be told, I think we'd all be mighty disappointed if you gave in too quick. Longer you hold out, the more we'll enjoy it. But in the end you'll talk. Last _tark_ we captured? Lasted almost two days, 'til we started with the fire.'

'Fire! Fire!' several of the subordinates began to chant. The ghastly rent in Ghashmaz's face widened considerably.

'Wept like a maid, 'e did, before the end. Snivelling coward. Then we et 'im. Stringy, 'e was. Shouldn't've left 'im so long, I suppose.'

Aragorn felt a great surge of wrath at the thought of these bestial creatures of Sauron so using one of the gallant men of Ithilien. He could not help the fury that glinted in his eyes, but he schooled it as swiftly as he could, hoping the orc had not noticed.

He had, but instead of lashing out, Ghashmaz laughed. 'Friend of yours, was 'e?' he mocked. The conclusion was a logical one: his race had only the barest ties of loyalty. Rage on behalf of a stranger was a foreign concept to them. As was sorrow. 'Don' worry: you'll be joining 'im soon enough.'

' 'Ere, you two. String 'im up by 'is arms! We'll let 'im swing awhile whilst I look at 'is gear.' Ghashmaz turned away, snatching Aragorn's pack from the orc who had confiscated it.

Aragorn's pulse quickened. If they hung him by his wrists, his one hope of escape would avail him nothing. Already his fingers were beginning to go numb, however he writhed them. If he lost feeling entirely...

'I had wondered,' he said, as saucily as he dared; 'why your men did not simply turn me over to the guards back at the Gate. I wonder still more now.'

The orc leaned close, taking hold of the noose again and leering eye-to-eye at his prisoner. 'Eh? 'Ow's that?'

'Surely the Men of the Eye could come up with more creative means to torment a prisoner than dangling him from a tree,' Aragorn sneered. His pulse was racing and he hoped frantically that his desperation would not show through his mask of disdain. 'I have seen as much done for the sport of the one who hangs! Why would you not leave me in the hands of _capable_ interrogators?'

With a howl of rage, Ghashmaz kicked him squarely in the gut. Anguish exploded into his viscera, and as Aragorn's body crumpled forward even the grasping hands on his shoulders could not keep him from falling. He landed on his side in the dust, helpless as the heavy boot dug into his side once more.

'Scum! Filth!' Ghashmaz howled, adding several more unsettling epithets in his own dark speech. 'The soldiers of the City do not hand over our prizes to Tower filth! You are ours, you worm, and we'll wring you to death! Wretch! Maggot! Stinking _tark_!'

Each expletive was accompanied by another vicious blow, and Aragorn was rapidly losing track of the world around him when suddenly a cry went up.

'That's 'im! That's 'im! That's the one!'

The kicking stopped, but Aragorn could do no more than lie curled on his flank, his vision flooded with pulsating darkness and his core wracked with pain.

'Whadda you mean, "him"?' Ghashmaz snarled.

'The Man! The _tark _from the mountains! _That's 'im_!'

Aragorn closed his eyes, bracing himself. Third Voice had arrived. There was a clattering noise of cast-off firewood. So they had sent the little one for fuel... but this was no time to be answering old questions. He was about to be repaid in full for his folly and his imprudent act of clemency.

'So what if it is?' snapped Ghashmaz. 'I'm going to kill 'im!'

'Y'can't,' Third Voice said.

The only sound was the ringing of blood in Aragorn's ears. When again Ghashmaz spoke his voice was low and deadly, Westron forgotten. 'Whadda you mean_ I can't_?'

'I got my orders. _They_ want to meet 'im. Want to know how a _tark_ knows our speech. Want to know 'is business in our mountains.'

'I was gonna find out 'is business!' Ghashmaz exclaimed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice now. The fear of the Nazgûl was more powerful than the need to assert his supremacy over the small, wily one.

'_They_'ll be right displeased if we bring 'im back too weak for questioning,' Third Voice said stoutly. 'An' if you kill 'im, well, I wouldn' be in your place for all the wealth of the Elves!'

Aragorn's eyes were functioning properly again, and though he did not dare move he shifted his gaze to Ghashmaz. The towering orc looked suddenly shrunken, uncertain. Then he scowled.

'Fine, then! Since you're the cursed expert on all that _they_ would want, the prisoner's yours! Do what you like with 'im, an' if aught goes wrong, it'll be _your_ head that's for it, not mine! Understood? And the rest of you! Little maggot's givin' the orders now: see to 'im. And let's see about some supper: it'll be dawn soon! Move it!'

The uruks dispersed, and Aragorn's attention shifted to his new jailer. As his eyes locked with the cold eyes of the approaching orc, Aragorn's heart grew cold within him. It seemed he was going to pay a high price indeed for the folly of mercy.

_lar_

When the grey dawn came, the orcs retreated into the shelter of the cave. Aragorn was left by its mouth, bound at wrists, ankles and knees with the noose still trailing from around his neck. The embers of the dying fire afforded no warmth to the shivering captive, and his cloak lay some rangar away, discarded among the scattered and trampled contents of his pack. From the look of things, Ghashmaz and his soldiers had found little of interest among the Ranger's belongings. The copper bracelet was gone, and the rushlight, but as far as Aragorn could tell everything else was there, strewn about like so much trash. There was his knife, half-wrapped in a scrap torn from his cloak: such creatures of evil could not bear to touch steel wrought by the Noldorin smiths of Imladris. Even his scant supply of food had proved beneath their notice, though ground into the dust and the grime of an orc-camp, he doubted that any of it was edible. They had found it monstrously amusing that a _tark_ should carry with him a supply of their liquor, and they had taken great pleasure in slicing open both skins and emptying his bottles over his garments. Damp in the cold winter wind, Aragorn had to struggle to keep from slipping from consciousness.

He was bleeding sluggishly from the nose, and his lip was split and swelling. His abdomen was rigid with bruises that prevented him from curling up for warmth. Lying on his side with his face in the dirt, he was struggling to force his bloated fingers to obey him.

Third Voice had done little enough: on the whole he had fared better than he could have hoped. Yes, the nimble fingers had dug themselves into some very sensitive places, but the wounds in his shoulder would heal and he could still hear out of both ears. It might have been far worse. The small orc had claimed the silver star that held his cloak, gloating over the treasure as if it were his first plunder. Upon reflection, Aragorn realized that such might indeed be the case. Then having yanked off his boots to ensure that the prisoner was concealing no blade within them, Third Voice had bound the Ranger's legs as tightly as he could. Commandeering the services of two of his larger fellows, he had ordered his captive deposited on the threshold of the cave, where he had left him.

There was no one about now, save for a dozing sentry well within the shadows of the rocks. Aragorn's perseverance was paying off, and he was now able to move his fingers, and to grasp. He would have found any precise task a trial at this moment, but he hoped he would have enough motion for this. He curled his right wrist, trying desperately to reach into his left sleeve. Sharp pain lanced up his arm, and he knew he could not manage it. Instead he rolled further onto his belly and began to shake his arms as fiercely as he could.

There was a rustling in the gorse-bushes, and Aragorn froze, his eyes seeking out the movement. There was something hidden there, watching him. Another orc? Some spy of the Enemy? Or merely a fox or a badger going about its morning business with no more regard for the trussed-up man than it would have had for a stone?

But he had seen no game animals in all his northward journey, and why would a spy of Sauron shy away from a camp full of orcs? Unless, of course, it was some servant of the Tower bent on striking the next blow in the senseless but very useful feud between the servants of the Witch-king and those who took their orders straight from the Barad-dûr.

He resumed his struggle to shake loose the weight in his sleeves. By the most extraordinary stroke of luck, both had survived his rough handling and the search efforts of Third Voice. That alone doubled his chance of success, or at least he tried to believe that it did.

There it was again! There was something very large hiding in that hedge. Aragorn tried to bring into focus the shadows beneath the gorse. At last he saw them: two keen eyes, bright and piercing, staring straight at him. Once he had a reference point, the rest of the figure came into focus: a face masked in green, cloak and hood dyed in variegated woodland hues, left hand braced against the trunk of the bush, right hand tucked out of sight, doubtless concealing a sword. A Ranger of Ithilien.

The Man saw the recognition in the prisoner's eyes, and he raised his gloved hand, one finger to his lips. Aragorn nodded. He should have been grateful of the sight of an ally, but he was not. If the man was alone, he had no chance of overcoming the orcs. If he was not, Aragorn would soon find himself a prisoner of the Steward, for nothing that he was free to admit would exculpate him of the crime of wandering unbidden in Ithilien, prisoner of the Uruk-hai or no. He did not relish attempting to explain himself to a dour woodland captain, and utmost calamity would strike if there was one in the company old enough to know him.

The Ranger lifted his mask a little, exposing his lips. They moved in a silent question, but at this distance it was difficult for Aragorn to read the motions. He shook his head once, and the man tried a second time, pointing at the mouth of the cave.

Ah. _How many_? He wanted an estimate of the enemy's numbers. Aragorn mouthed back: _fifteen_. The Man shook his head. The motion was hampered by the swollen lip. Carefully Aragorn repeated himself again, and a third time, and a fourth. Finally the soldier nodded in comprehension, and flashed his open fingers three times to represent the number. Aragorn bobbed his head emphatically. The man mouthed his thanks, and something more that might have been a promise of aid. Then he covered his mouth and vanished into the trees.

It was not long before Aragorn heard the trilling noise of a whistle. He knew the code, and he understood. The Ranger was communicating that the enemy was near, fifteen in number, and that aid and one with healing skills was needed. Then he heard the signal for 'prisoner'. The answering call came, faint but clear. It was a relaying voice. Aragorn listened as the second whistler repeat the message, and then for a long time there was silence. At last the answer came: help was coming, and would arrive in less than half an hour. Was the scout in immediate danger?

Aragorn did not concentrate any further upon the communications of his would-be rescuers. He redoubled his efforts with greater desperation. Half an hour. He had hoped for an entire day.

There was no time to waste.


	14. The Fruits of Failure

**Chapter XIV: The Fruits of Failure**

The effort of struggling with his arms was growing swiftly exhausting. Aragorn's breath was laboured and beads of cold perspiration were trickling into his eyes. He let his body go limp for a moment, panting softly and striving to gather his resolve. He could not rest long, however, and as soon as he was able to breathe again he resumed the urgent motions, shaking his arms with such vigour that he felt as if his shoulders were about to be torn from their sockets.

He was hovering on the cusp of defeat when he felt the insistent bite of steel against the heel of his left hand. The exhalation of triumph was more of a moan, but a moment later he had the blade in his fingers. It was one of the little throwing knives: he had anchored the remaining two in the hem of each sleeve during his abortive break for freedom.

With excruciating care he twisted his fingers, trying to slip the blade between his wrists. He was not confident that he would be able to pick it up again if once he dropped it. He nicked more than one finger in the process and his hands grew sticky with thick, sluggish blood, but in the end he had the knife in place. Sawing through the ropes proved a challenge, for by now his fingers were cramping and his left wrist ached terribly. He would have fared better after a few minutes' rest, but he had no time to squander.

At last he felt the fibres snap and the bonds loosen. Frantically he wrenched his hands free of the rope and eased them forward. His arms burned and his joints creaked and popped as he restored his body to a more natural position. He ground his teeth against the spasms that tore into hsi shoulders and breast; to cry out now would be his downfall.

Scarcely had the cramps faded into a burning ache than Aragorn was forcing himself up. Fumbling rather badly, he cut quickly cut the bonds at knees and ankles, but it took some vigorous rubbing to restore feeling to his calves and his chilled feet. He did not trust his clumsy hands with a knife against his throat, and so he did not remove the noose, but merely coiled the long tail of rope about his shoulders like some strange hempen cowl. Perhaps a bit of rope would come in handy later on, anyhow: he would remove it when he found the chance. A concerted effort got his knees under him, and he struggled to his feet, clutching his arms to his bruised abdomen, which protested cruelly against such exertion.

Casting a furtive glance towards the cave to reassure himself that the sentry yet slept, Aragorm moved with what haste he could to where his boots lay. He leaned against the hanging tree to wrestle with them. It proved a challenge to drag them on over bloated ankles with hands that could not properly grasp, but the desperate need for haste was a powerful motivator. Shod once more, Aragorn turned his attention to gathering his belongings. He was able to salvage little. His cloak and his knife he gathered, but the former had no clasp and the latter's sheath was nowhere to be found. His belt lay discarded by the hewn remains of his bowl, and it was with grim gratitude that he discovered that the pouch hanging from it had been overlooked by the plunderers: flint, steel, tinder rags and his cache of dried nailwort were all untouched. But his provisions were ruined, his water-bottles useless, his pack-straps cut and everything else either spoiled or soiled. He recovered his wooden cup, but he would not dare to use it without several thorough rinsings, and he managed to find the coil of wire and his sewing-wallet – but the needles were gone and the thread had been pulled from its winder and tangled into a hopeless snarl. He kept in anyway, in case he might be able to work it out of the knots once he had time and proper dexterity.

There was no sign of his penknife, which was not of Elvish make. He grieved to lose it, for it had been a gift from his mother's cousin, but there was no help for it. By the fire, the smoke of which had doubtless drawn the attention of the Rangers, he found his comb. It had been snapped in two. He kept the half that had retained the most teeth, but left the other. The little crock that he had taken from the orc on the mountain was smashed, but Aragorn scraped up what grease he could and folded it into a corner of the rag that had been cut from his cloak.

There was nothing else worth bearing away, so he bundled the meagre remains of his gear into the ruined pack. He hesitated when he came to the cloak. He would have been glad of its familiar warmth in the sharp winter air, but without his star it was unwearable. He could scarcely stroll brazenly into the cave to reclaim his property from the sleeping Third Voice, nor could he linger here to improvise a clasp. Hastily he rolled up the tatty garment and stowed it in his pack, which he fasted by its one remaining cord and tucked under his arm like a washerwoman's bundle.

He had lost track of the minutes, but he did not doubt that he was all but out of time. With his free arm pressed against his battered trunk, he began to hasten away from the camp. To the northwest there rose a rocky hill, and it was in this direction that he moved. At first his legs trembled and he feared he would be unable to gain any significant speed, but as he fell into his stride his limbs steadied and his head grew clearer despite the ache in his core. Soon he reached the foot of the slope and he began his hasty climb, now and again casting his eyes over his shoulder at the camp below. If he could only reach the summit before the men of Ithilien came, he might stand a real chance of escape – for the orcs would surely be slain and the Rangers would not expect anyone to make for the empty lands that lay beyond.

But there was too little time. When next he looked behind, he could see the hooded figures creeping out of the gorse towards the cave. One squatted in the place where Aragorn had been lying, searching about for any sign of the captive. The man spied him, and rapped upon the arm of his comrade, pointing. But there was no time now to follow after a runaway, for with a cry the orc-sentry awoke.

Aragorn turned from the sound of battle and doubled his pace, straining against the pain in his side as he ran up the hill. Behind him the sounds of battle rent the air. He had no hope now of staving off pursuit: once the skirmish was decided, the victors would come after him – either the orcs, to reclaim their prize, or the Rangers, to discover what manner of man was trespassing in their lands. He must outrun them both.

There was a part of him that did not wish to run, not only because it galled him to fly from battle, but because he knew that even a prisoner would find mercy at the hands of Denethor's men. They would give him food and drink, and allow him to rest – bound, perhaps, but unharmed and unharried. Though they would interrogate him, they would not put him to torment, and no captain of the Rangers would sentence a man to death untried. If there were a healer among them, they would tend to his hurts. They would have made kinder jailers than the orcs.

And yet he could ill afford such a capture. The hour had not yet come for Aragorn son of Arathorn to walk once more in Gondor, and if he returned now there would be great calamity. What a coming for Isildur's Heir: to be dragged before the Steward as a tattered beggar, taken by the wardens of the debatable border-lands. Well could Aragorn imagine Denethor's expression as he beheld the once-puissant Thorongil, come back to Gondor at last. What hope would there be of restoring the kingship then? And worse, if Thorongil were still beloved in the hearts of those who had once been young soldiers and lordlings and who were now the nation's elite, there might be civil strife. Gondor might tear herself in twain, all for the sake of a few hot meals and a healer's scrutinizing touch.

At the very least it would be most embarrassing for Gandalf to have to extricate his ragged friend from the dungeons of Minas Tirith.

So Aragorn ran. He ran until he reached the crest of the hill. He ran, or rather skidded very quickly, down the far side. He ran until the noises of the fray were far behind. He ran while the sun climbed high. He ran though his throat burned in a torment of thirst and his abdomen ached and his head swam. He ran though his legs could scarcely bear him up. He ran until he stumbled and fell crashing to earth, and then he gathered up his ruined pack and ran again.

He ran until he came to a slow-moving stream wending its way between the scrubby hillocks. There he stopped for a time, his chest heaving. He drank his fill, and then lay down for a few minutes, resting his pulsing head and curling over the dull anguish in his viscera. He rinsed his cup, scrubbing it with silt from the creek-bed until he was satisfied that it was free of orcish filth. Then he drank again, until his belly felt bloated and could hold no more. He filled the cup and rose up again: it was all the water he could carry with him.

Surely the battle was ended. He wondered who had triumphed. He had counted half a dozen Rangers. Surely they were sufficient to defeat a party of fifteen orcs, sunlight-shy and taken unawares. Though he hoped they had succeeded, and though he prayed that no man had been slain or grievously wounded in the endeavour, Aragorn could not help but wish that they would not pursue him. He knew that to be a foolish dream, however, and so he rose up and went on again, trying not to jog his steps too much, lest he should spill his small supply of water.

The sun sank westward, staining the ragged clouds orange. Aragorn was stumbling now, made clumsy by exhaustion and hunger, but still he kept on. The Rangers might halt to rest awhile, whilst the hours of darkness made tracking impossible; but if the orcs had won they would not stop for night. Aragorn could not take that chance, however slim. Into the night he ran, until he could run no more. Then he crumpled to his knees. He drank what water remained in his cup, and he cut loose the halter about his neck, stowing the coil of rope in his pack. Then wrapping himself in his ragged cloak, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

_lar_

He awoke before the dawn to the sound of booted feet far off but drawing nearer. There was no noise in the frosty air, but the ground echoed with the sound of distant pursuit. Aragorn rose up, stowing his cloak in his pack, and he loped off, shivering, into the morning chill. Now and again he glanced behind him, fearing to catch sight of his pursuers, but ever onward he ran like a wounded hart before the hunt, his energies focused only upon survival.

Just ere noon he saw them: a black mass on the crest of the horizon. Whether at this distance they could see him he did not know, but he doubted it. They were many, moving in close formation. He was one, a grimy figure indistinct against the brown lands around him. Yet the sight of his followers filled him with despair. He could not run much longer, and there was nowhere to hide. They would catch him in the end.

It was his own fault, he knew. He should have listened to his friend. He should have heeded Gandalf's advice and taken his friend's generous offer and departed for the North while he had still had the chance and the choice. Had he but listened to Gandalf, he might be in Imladris now, resting in safety before he rejoined his men in their hopeless watch upon the Shire. He had been too weary, even on that afternoon in Harondor when Gandalf had announced his abandonment of their quest, to undertake such a journey as he had. Again and again he had misjudged and misstepped because he was exhausted, his endurance worn thin and his patience strained. In his full vigour and reason he would not have ventured so far by orc-roads in the mountains. He would not have passed that door without an adequate supply of light, and so would not have fallen afoul of the spider. Rested and alert, he never would have fallen on the stairs below Cirith Ungol. Even the brush with the Nazgûl would have been easier to bear had he not been teetering on the edge of enervation and despair. Most horrifying of all was his lapse before the Black Gate. Such a sight never would have caused him to forget himself so utterly, except that the darkness in his heart and the weariness of his body had made him vulnerable.

It was irresponsible to continue on, to press further into these black lands in his present state. He needed to recoup his strength, to renew his spirit before he faced any other challenge. If he wished to remain alive he could not endanger his ill-equipped body any further. He had pushed himself to the very brink of disaster, and now it was time to draw back a little. He knew now that if he escaped the current predicament he would not be resuming his hunt. He would make his way North as best he could. Though it was a bitter thing to return empty-handed yet again, it was better that he should return alive, having failed in his hunt, than to die in an attempt to achieve the impossible. He could always try to pick up the trail again at some other time.

Save that he knew he would do no such thing. If he forsook the hunt now, then it was over. Never again would he find the resolve to search for Gollum. Never again would he go striding South in search of the lost trail. If he quit now, he was forever finished. He would never find his quarry. He would never learn the whole truth. If Bilbo's Ring were ever identified, it would be on the strength of Gandalf's findings. Aragorn the huntsman would have failed.

It would haunt him forever, this defeat. Evermore he would wonder how he could have done better, what more he could have tried, where else he might have looked. Evermore he would be tormented by the thought that if he had dared – if he had only dared – to pass into Mordor proper, perhaps he might have found the creature at last. Evermore he would think that had he been a little swifter, had he pushed a little harder, mayhap he would have caught the creature's trail where it was fresh. Evermore he would revisit at whiles these long wasted years, wondering, supposing, reliving. And from time to time he would catch himself looking about, searching a riverbed or the shadows in a bog or the border of a mire for just a hint of a hobbit-like print in the mud, as if somehow he might turn back time itself to the days when he had had the chance to find the troublesome wretch and to save Middle-earth from darkness...

Despair, colder than the winter winds, more pernicious than the probings of a Nazgûl mind, crept into Aragorn's heart. So be it. He had failed. Such were the fruits of failure. He could not find Gollum. He could not go on. All that he could do was to keep moving, to place one weary foot before the other as slowly, tortuously, he plodded out the thousand miles that would bear him back to the lands of his birth. He would confess his failure and he would strive to bear both the shame and the consequences like a noble man. He could no longer hide from the truth. He had failed.

The hunt was over.

_lar_

Yet though he was no longer the hunter, he was still prey. Whether the distant shadow on the southern horizon intended to butcher and eat him, or whether it intended to reel him in for questioning he did not know, but he could not fall into their clutches. That they moved even during the day did not much narrow the field. In these lands, the gloom of Mordor hung low and day was little more bright than night. Furthermore, orcs when pressed for revenge did not halt even for the dawn. Third Voice and his comrades might still be on his heels, lusting for retribution. With a heavy heart and aching legs, he trotted onward, unable now to run. About him the lands grew ever more barren, and there was a sour smell upon the air. It plucked at Aragorn's memory, but it was not until he reached the summit of the next hill that he realized where he had come.

Below him spread the grey expanse of the Dead Marshes. Here and there a sheen of sickly green disrupted the bleak winter fens. Tangles of swamp-weeds formed dark pox upon the land, and the foul, heavy smell that had plagued him for miles now seemed quite overwhelming. Revulsion shivered up the Ranger's spine as he stood there, numb with pain and cold and bitter despair. But he could not tarry forever, and there was no path for him but the northward path. He began to stumble down the slope onto the flat approach to the marshes themselves.

He would have struck a westerly course, and skirted them entirely, save that by now he was fairly swooning with exhaustion. For two days and a night had he moved forward with only a handful of hours spent in restless slumber. He was wounded and he was weak from hunger and thirst. He could run no farther: he had to find shelter, some place to conceal himself in the vain hope that his pursuers would pass him by in the gloom of the evening. The only cover in all these lands lay amid the sickly reeds and rushes of the fens ahead.

Soon he reached the edge of the quagmire, picking his way carefully into the muddy lands. He cast about desperately for somewhere, anywhere, large enough to conceal a man. Time was running short. His pursuers were doubtless behind the last hill now. There was not a moment to spare.

But there! A tangle of cattails, and a broad stretch of rushes, almost waist-high. Aragorn looked back. There was a shadow on the hilltop now, less than a mile behind. Swiftly he crouched, crawling forward through the mud until he was concealed among the reeds. Breathless he waited. It hardly seemed possible that such a place could hide him long. His breath came in ragged gulps and his heart was hammering in his chest. He had tarried too long on his hopeless quest, and his tenacity, mayhap, would cost him his life. At the very least it would cost him his freedom. Again the black thought came to him and his wayworn spirit quailed. Such were the fruits of failure.

_lar_

Surely it took no more than a quarter of an hour for the trackers to descend onto the plain, but to Aragorn, huddling in the stinking mud and contemplating which of two grim fates was the more calamitous, it seemed an eternity. While he waited he berated himself. Fool, to believe he could accomplish what Gandalf could not. Doubly a fool, to press on even after losing the trail once again. And thrice three times a fool to be caught by four craven orcs because he was too dumbstruck to bestir himself! Fool he was, and he was about to suffer either a fool's death or a fool's humiliation.

He could hear them now. They were perhaps three hundred ells away. At that distance, the clamour of orcs would have filled the air. These folk were quiet, murmuring among themselves. The Rangers, then. Aragorn felt a craven flutter of relief deep in his gut. He was not about to be slain like a dog in the muck. Then he remembered the disastrous consequences of capture by Denethor's men, and that small comfort, too, abandoned him.

Nearer still; they were on the very brink of the Marshes, and now Aragorn could make out their words.

'There, clear as day; the same boot-prints we saw in the camp, and back by the creek-bed,' said one. 'Well-made, but old and worn. Never a nail to be seen.'

'That cannot be right,' another put in. 'If those are his tracks, he has made his way into the very heart of the fens. All living creatures shun this cursed place. Captain, let us leave here while the daylight lasts!'

'We cannot leave! The man is a spy; else why would he have fled before our coming?' argued a third.

'A spy, or some sorry wretch who knew little of our ways and our skill,' said a quieter voice. 'He may have thought us unlikely to prevail, and snatched his chance for escape while he could. Who is to say how long he languished in the tender care of the orcs? Show pity for those less fortunate, Damrod, and you may find grace when most you have need.'

'Pity he could have had in abundance two days ago,' said Damrod; 'but he has led us on a merry chase, and I see no reason to forgive that. Never before have I ventured so far to the North, Captain, and I do not intend to return empty-handed.'

'What business had he in Ithilien?' asked a fifth man. 'That, at least, we must learn.'

'He may have had no business there at all,' put in a sixth voice, younger than the others. 'Mayhap the orcs brought him there against his will. His face was bloodied and swollen: they had used him cruelly. If he has more wounds than I saw he may need our help.'

Aragorn realized that this last must be the Ranger who had come upon him. Though he could not accept the implied offer of aid, he was nonetheless grateful to the kind-hearted youth. After so long among foes, it was oddly consoling to find that someone cared enough to remark upon his well-being.

'Indeed he may need it, Anborn,' said the Captain, his voice low and pensive. 'But it seems he wants it not. Therefore I must chose: do I make further pursuit, even into these hated fens, and force our aid and our questions upon him, or do I withdraw, and allow the unfortunate to pass out of the knowledge of the Men of the West? By which course shall I best serve my nation, and my Steward, and my men?'

'Withdraw,' said the second Ranger.

'Aye, let us be gone from here. 'Tis a wicked place, and night is falling,' the first agreed.

'Your father would bid us press onward, my lord,' said the fifth; 'yet though I confess we should learn the stranger's intent, I would as lief remain upon unchanging ground.'

'Then I will speak what the rest fear to say!' Damrod exclaimed. 'We cannot bend the laws of this land for any man, be he pitiable or no! He had no right to walk within our borders—'

'I did not see him walking; I saw him bound and helpless,' protested Anborn.

'Yet he freed himself with no aid from you,' the fifth man put in. 'He cannot have been as helpless as he looked.'

'The laws of Ithilien—'

Damrod fell silent in the midst of his explanation. Aragorn knew the sound of such an abrupt halt in a soldier's speech. With a gesture or an imperious glance, his commander had made a demand for silence.

'We are no longer in Ithilien,' the Captain said presently, having made full use of the pause. 'We are beyond our borders, and in this debatable place there is no rule of law. Therefore the word of the Steward holds no weight here, over traveller or fugitive or servant of the Enemy. As this man was a stranger in the camp behind, so we are strangers here. Therefore let us depart, and tarry no longer. He has escaped our nets; so let him be gone.'

There was no use in arguing with such a tone. Aragorn felt a sudden, irrational thrill of pride, like an old general who realizes that the new generation is indeed worthy to succeed him.

'Very well, my Captain. Let it be as you say,' Damrod professed. There was no resentment in his voice, nor any defiance. He had the sound of one who had discharged his duty and spoken his mind, but who accepts as a good soldier must the word of his leader. 'I shall be glad to return to our own borders, where at least the law holds.'

'Give me your bottle,' the Captain said. 'Is it full?'

'Aye,' said Damrod. 'But why?'

There was a sound of clinking buckles and shifting gear. 'You four men will share with the two of us, I trust?' asked the Captain. 'We shall have enough water between us to see us safely to the stream?'

'Aye, Captain.'

'Verily.'

'We shall.'

'But _why_?'

'There is no clear passage through these Marshes,' the Captain remarked. He was still shuffling through his equipment. He raised his voice to add; 'If the man has any sense, he will come out and take the long road around.' Then, more softly he said to his men; 'And it is a long road, and lonely. The waters of these swamps are not to be trusted, nor have I seen any sign of game. If the man comes out as he went in, he will happen upon this. Whatever his transgressions, I would not condemn the poor soul to starve in this wasteland.

'Now let us go,' he said then, grunting a little with the unmistakable sound of a man hefting a heavy pack upon his back. 'We shall not halt until we are once more within our own lands. Onward!'

Aragorn listened as the footsteps sped away. Even when all was silent, he crouched there, breathless. He did not know whether the Captain had been aware of his lurking presence, or whether the raised voice was mere supposition – or coincidence. They might have sent off some of their number only, with the others lying in wait. Yet his thirst was utterly unbearable, and at last it drove him forth, picking his way back to the firm ground at the borders of the Marshes.

There, in the scrub grass, lay two bottles, each full of clean water from the stream to the south; and a small bundle wrapped in linen. Within Aragorn found two wrinkled apples, several strips of dried meat, and a couple of pounds of hard, dry bannock; the waybread of Ithilien. Such was the mercy shown to a suspect stranger by the Captain of Ithilien. Stricken with awe that brought unshed tears to his weary eyes, Aragorn bowed his head. There was yet hope in the world while good men dwelt in Gondor. With this gift he might win through to the living lands beyond the Emyn Muil, and so find his way home at last.

But he would never find Gollum.


	15. The Dead Marshes

**Chapter XV: The Dead Marshes**

Aragorn stirred no further that night. He did not feel able to eat, and though he partook of the water he did so sparingly. There was no telling when he might find more, for the Captain had spoken aright: the waters in these lands were not to be trusted. With his thirst but scarcely dulled Aragorn dug out his cloak and settled on the dry ground outside the borders of the stinking fen. There he passed the hours until dawn drifting in and out of uneasy dreams.

He was haunted by the vast uncertain future, and it tainted the night-roaming of his spirit. In these last months he had seen much of darkness and evil, but little of light or hope, and it was despair that visited him now. Though his brush with the Rangers of Ithilien had left him with firm proof that decency and honour dwelt yet within the hearts of Men, he was afraid. These seemed such poor weapons to pit against the might of Mordor. Furthermore throughout his long life Aragorn had witnessed the frailty of mortal hearts. There were those, of course, in whom nobility of spirit was as tireless and enduring as the Flame Imperishable, but in others it was like the seed of the beech tree, blown swiftly away by the first strong wind. When the storm came, would the valiant hearts be sufficient to uphold the rest? Or would the innocents quail and the mighty ones fall until all the world was plunged into darkness?

Aragorn had in generous measure the gift of his kindred, and he was held by many to be a man foresighted. But beyond the gathering Shadow he could see nothing. Often in these last years he had felt like one stricken blind, groping fruitlessly forward though he did not know the way.

Before the dawn he forsook his hopeless attempts to find rest within his rambling mind. He sat huddled under his torn cloak, trying to endure the damp chill that hung over the Marshes. His shoulder stung where the orcs' claws had dug so mercilessly into his flesh, and the rope-burns on his wrists were irritating. He wished that he might wash his hurts, but he could not spare water for such a luxury until he was sure of securing his next supply. His legs were sore and leaden after his frantic flight and the healing gash in his thigh ached. The cold did not help any of these pains, and as he waited for the grey gloom of daylight Aragorn found himself daydreaming wistfully of a crackling campfire. He had not had fuel or safety enough for fire since ascending into the Mountains of Shadow, and he sorely missed the comfort and companionship of a warming blaze.

When at last the Sun arose, a pale disc of light behind the grey clouds, Aragorn surveyed his surroundings. It seemed that he had come upon the Marshes at their most south-eastern edge. To the West the fens stretched out endlessly to meet the horizon, while looking to the East Aragorn could see the change from brown to grey that marked the beginning of the plains north of the Morannon.

An unpleasant choice, latest in a long list of unpleasant choices, awaited him now. To pass through the Dead Marshes by the most direct route was the act of a madman: the shifting quagmires and ever-changing tussocks would confound even the most experienced traveller. Aragorn had no desire to be swallowed up by the swamp. Yet in the eaves of the Marshes would he be most safe from any pursuit or patrol. If even the stalwart men of Ithilien dared not chance the borders it seemed improbably that any band of roving orcs would do so. Thus his path would be both long and treacherous, whatever way he went. Westward the Marshes stretched for fifty miles or more before fading into the bleak approach to the Vale of Anduin beneath the Falls of Rauros. There a wanderer would be obliged to follow the river for many leagues before one came to a place where a man might cross without a boat. Eastward he might vanish swiftly into the Emyn Muil, emerging from the mountains where Anduin provided a girth amenable to the efforts of a strong swimmer.

Now that he had made up his mind to return to the North, Aragorn was of a mind to do so with all haste, and the East road seemed the quicker. He gathered up his provisions into the pack, which he tucked under his arm. He realized only after he had dragged himself to his feet that he had made no effort to fashion a clasp for his cloak. Rather than sit to struggle with the puzzle, he merely wrapped the garment around his shoulders, clutching it to him like a blanket. Thus equipped, he ventured forward into the Marshes, watching his feet with one eye whilst he searched his environs with the other.

_lar_

All that day he walked, the silence broken only by the burbling of the marshes and the noise of his boots in the sucking mud. Though he stepped with care, ever attentive to the ground before him, he often found himself in muck ankle deep or worse, and twice he sank so far into the mire that the vile swamp-water oozed over the top of his boots. Slowly, inexorably, the wetness crept through the leather also and his feet in their woollen hose grew wet and almost intolerably cold. His clothing was damp and his cloak was heavy on his shoulders, slipping frequently out of the dogged grasp that held it in place. His arm ached from carrying his pack, dangerously light though it was, and his weary legs struggled against the mud.

Despite the miseries of the body, Aragorn found his thoughts straying towards a more philosophical matter: his abandonment of his quest.

The draught of failure was a bitter brew to swallow. Seldom in his long labours had Aragorn been driven to admit defeat. True, victory was often hard-won and not infrequently unpalatable by the end, but nonetheless he most often succeeded in whatever venture he undertook. Though the years had worn on and the trail wound into lands ever more perilous, he had truly believed that in the end he would succeed. He knew well his own skill: he had tracked horses over bare rock, and found Rangers who did not wish to be discovered. He had pursued men through shifting desert sands, and followed all manner of beasts and birds. If there lived a man who could outdo him in the hunt Aragorn had not met him.

Yet his skill had failed him, and with it his hope. It galled him to return thus, despairing and defeated. What would he tell his brothers when they asked how he had fared in the South? How would he explain to his beloved the nature of his failure and the depth of his disgrace? And Master Baggins, who held his friend the Dúnadan in such high esteem – how could Aragorn face him, having failed to capture his old nemesis? What of his foster-father? He dreaded the grave expression that would seep into Elrond's eyes as the unhappy tidings were spoken; empathy and resignation intermingled, and with them a spark of terror, well-concealed but not wholly hidden, for the Lord of Imladris knew better than any other the terrible stake that rode upon the question of Bilbo's little Ring.

Worst of all would be the confrontation with Gandalf. For all the wizard's words at their parting, Aragorn knew his friend had yet believed him capable of success: however improbable his triumph had seemed at least conceivable, else Gandalf would never have allowed him to go on. To dash that secret hope would be a terrible blow to Aragorn's heart. And the Istar would never accept that Aragorn had simply tired of the hunt. There would be questions; an interrogation to rival that to which the creature itself would have been put. In the end, Aragorn knew, Gandalf would wring from him every last detail of the fruitless weeks upon the marches of Mordor. Then there would be a reckoning, a tongue-lashing to equal the castigation of Fëanor before the seat of the Valar, followed by a great deal of undue consideration. That Aragorn dreaded almost more than the confession of failure itself, for he knew that he deserved it. At no point in their ill-starred quest had Gandalf intimated that the hunt was worth the risking of life, limb or sanity.

At least, Aragorn thought, he was not an oathbreaker. The wizard had released him from his promise and he was free to return home as best he might. Had been free, indeed, since their parting in Harondor. He half wished that he had turned back then, with his body unscathed and his spirit unassailed and his clothing still whole. Yet he knew now as he had then that to turn back while there was still a chance, however slim, would have driven him to madness. As hateful as his failure was, he could at least say with absolute verity that he had hunted to the very limits of his strength.

That was enough to sustain him. It had to be.

_lar_

Dusk fell unexpectedly, the gloom of the day vanishing rapidly into darkness. As the temperature dropped mists began to rise off of the vile meres between which Aragorn picked his way with all the care he could. The air grew denser, and the sour stink of the Marshes only seemed to intensify. Then something flickered in the corner of the Ranger's eye: a glint of faint and unearthly light. He turned his head swiftly, but when he looked the glow was gone.

Again it happened, and again. Aragorn was beginning to fear for his reason when another appeared, a little ahead of him. And there was another, away to his left, and another beyond that. Soon the darkness was filled with them; pinions of pale illumination like the wavering glow of hundreds of sickly candles, shining amid the waters of the Dead Marshes but illuminating nothing. Aragorn's pulse quickened. What devilry was this? He turned about in a full circle; he was surrounded by the lights on every side, dancing dizzyingly in the mists.

They were fair, perilous and fair, and they seemed almost to call to him, but before he could venture a single step his common sense prevailed. This was some enchantment laid upon the land – no wizard-work, nor any contrivance of the Elves, but some more ancient and terrible power, older maybe than Mordor itself, that had settled in this place of death. He could feel the lure of the lights, tempting the traveller to come, to follow, and so to sink forever in the stagnant waters. Resolutely he resisted, closing his mind to temptation and his eyes to the enticing flickering of the ghostly lights.

His mind was filled now with tales of the great battle upon the plains of Daglorad. He had heard many accounts of that conflict, some even first-hand from those who had fought before the gates of Mordor. Master Elrond spoke with respect and love of the honoured dead. The Lady Galadriel recalled well the glory of the first valiant charge and the bittersweet satisfaction of victory, when the Black Gate was cast open and the forces of Elves and Men swarmed down upon Gorgoroth itself. But it was from Celeborn that Aragorn had learned of the grim work that followed the battle: of the great graves carved into the packed and blood-soaked earth, into which Elf and Man, Dwarf and Orc alike were laid to rest, with their arms and armour still upon their bodies.

Like the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Daglorad had left no time for the proper disposition of the dead. Yet where the servants of Morgoth, triumphant, had piled high the bodies of their enemies to rot shamefully beneath the open sky, the victorious hosts of Elendil and Gil-galad had made what hasty efforts they could to offer a dignified burial to the slain. Strange, Aragorn thought: the defilement of Morgoth had been purified, becoming the great mound of Haudh-en-Ndengin, green amid the desolation of Angband. Yet by evil had the honourable intentions of the folk of the Last Alliance been twisted into this place of stench and death.

He dared walk no further while the ghostly candles shone, and so he crouched down in the mud to eat a little and to rest as best he might, unable to lie down as he fought back sleep and dark thoughts with equal resolve.

_lar_

On the following day it rained. No cleansing downpour was this, but a slow persistent drizzle that dampened the spirits and the garments alike. Even the rain had a foul smell in this hateful place, and Aragorn plodded on in misery, head bowed beneath his hood, one hand still holding his cloak in place. How glad he would be to leave these bleak lands behind! How blessed it would be to breathe clean air once more, and to walk where the earth was fair and unsullied! How his heart ached for home.

He banished that thought. He had a long road before him, a hard and bitter path. His scant supplies would not last him long, and further to the North winter was thick upon the land. He remembered his words to Gandalf about venturing into the snows clad in light summer garb, and a convulsive shiver ran up his spine. He hugged his wet cloak nearer to his body and sighed. He would cope with that difficulty when he came to it. He might walk two hundred miles or more before he saw any sign of frost.

Today he was troubled by the sense that he was not alone. He felt bare and exposed, as if hundreds of eyes were upon him. Yet he saw no sign of bird nor beast, and the grey lands far away to his right seemed bereft of all life. Still an irrational fear of discovery cast a pall upon Aragorn's heart and he moved onward with caution. He was not beyond the power of the Enemy yet, and he could ill afford to fall afoul of an errant company of Uruk-hai. At last, he turned his course in a more westerly direction and picked out a path that led somewhat more deeply into the Marshes.

A little after noon, the rain ceased its merciless incursions upon his health, but the Sun could not be seen and the heavy clammy air smothered all hope of drying his clothes. He was far from the northern snows, but it was cold enough here, particularly with the hope waning so in his weary heart. Not for the first time, Aragorn longed for companionship; for the company of someone, anyone, whose voice might break the wretched monotony of this lonely journey.

'Well, you've done it this time, Aragorn my boy,' Gandalf would have said. 'You've led me down some strange and unpleasant paths these last years, but this is by far the most unusual. Here, have a care where you step: we almost lost you in that last mere!'

'I don't know how you abide that wet hair in your eyes!' He could almost hear Elrohir's jovially teasing voice now. 'Men who don't trouble to keep their tresses in order ought to cut them off!'

'Leave him be, Elrohir: he's not a child anymore and might resent your treating him as such,' Elladan would have rebutted. 'Estel, tonight you really ought to see what can be done with your comb. You'll be more comfortable for it.'

And Halbarad: 'Time to halt and eat a little, I think. Even the mighty Strider cannot walk on indefinitely without his victuals.'

Aragorn would have traded anything for the company of even one of his friends. Yet he supposed that he should heed their advice, even if they were not present to speak it. When he reached the next tussock set upon firm and marginally less soggy ground, he sat and ate a little. Then he dug out the remains of his comb and made a cursory attempt to restore some order to his overgrown crop of hair. This proved counterproductive, however, for far from making him feel more comfortable it only made him long for a hot bath and a shave and clean clothing. Frustrated, he stowed the comb away. He had wandered in the wilderness for decades, bereft of such comforts, and yet somehow he never grew quite accustomed to being filthy and ragged and unkempt.

This seemed as good a time as any to address the matter of his cloak. Aragorn took inventory of his meagre possessions and settled upon two options. Either he might use the length of rope to tie the cloak to his body, or he could try to contrive some sort of fastening with the wire. The former seemed too much a reminder of his recent travels in the company of the Uruk-hai, and so he settled upon the latter. He had six handspans of wire, and he cut away a length of two. Then, positioning the cloak most comfortably upon his shoulders he wove the wire in and out through the layers of wool until they were held together by stitches of bronze. Cautiously he tugged at the makeshift clasp, then more insistently. It held. His tired arm throbbed gratefully.

He ate the second apple and tucked a sliver of the dried meat into his cheek to gnaw on while he walked. The longer he chewed, the more satiated he could trick his stomach into feeling. It would be a long and hungry journey home and he had to contrive to keep himself on his feet somehow.

He resumed his journey with a heavy heart, watching the earth with one eye and the land with the other. The thready mists clung to the swamp-grasses and obscured the path below his feet. Tired and disheartened, Aragorn did not immediately comprehend what he was seeing until his instincts began to shriek at him to slow, to stop, to look.

Swiftly he turned. Hastily he crouched. Long fingers slipped forward almost of their own accord to brush the surface of the mud. Aragorn's pulse quickened and his throat grew taut as he fought back wonder and disbelief. It could not be, and yet his senses would not lie. He cast about for some corroborating sign and he found it, not ten inches away from the first.

Tracks.

There in the soft mud were the marks of broad, flat feet – bare, with long, prehensile toes. Smaller than orc-feet they were, smaller than Man. Unmistakably hobbit-like.

A little farther along Aragorn found the marks of four knuckles where they had dug into the earth to bear up the passage of their owner. And here was the indentation of a knee. Here the off-foot had dragged after the lead, and here the creature had stopped to root about among the rushes. He moved forward swiftly, crouched low to the ground as he picked up the trail. It scarcely seemed possible, after fifteen years, after all the perils and the hardships and the futile pursuits, that he should chance upon what he sought now, now when he had at last despaired of ever succeeding. Yet so it was: tracks clear enough that a child could follow them, and fresh! They were not more than three or four hours old, or the rain would have washed them away. Even now the groundwater was seeping into the deeper imprint made by the ball of the foot – for a creature that scrambled rather than walking left little by way of a heel-mark. In another hour or two the marks would be unintelligible, even to one of Aragorn's skill.

Swiftly he rose, tracing the path of the imprints where it wound away to the North. His heart was hammering in his chest now, but there was no time to tarry, reflecting upon his astonishment or the senselessness of such a discovery at such a time. Forward he sped, keen eyes racing before him to pick up the next sign, and the next, while the day waned swiftly and the twilight began to gather behind the gloom to the East. Weariness and hunger, despair and loneliness all were forgotten. Strider was on the hunt once more.


	16. A Prize Hard Won

**Chapter XVI: A Prize Hard-Won **

Dusk was falling rapidly as Aragorn sped forward, bent low so that he might follow the trail even in the gathering gloom. The creature kept up a great pace for so small a thing, but still the Ranger was swifter than his prey and the tracks grew ever more fresh. It seemed that his quarry was following much the same route Aragorn himself had intended to take, skirting around the very heart of the Marshes but remaining far enough within their border that the fens afforded cover from any hostile patrols in the bare surrounding lands. Of course, Aragorn reflected, this was not altogether astonishing. Certainly Gollum was adept at subterfuge and the arts of survival, or he never would have eluded capture for so long.

Aragorn halted, listening to the gurgling of the swamp-waters and the whispering of the dry reeds. Below these sounds he heard another, out of place in these empty lands. Low and sibilant, a keening whine filtered through the haze ahead.

The pack was eased to the ground, and Aragorn groped within it until his fingers closed upon the coil of rope that had been fixed about his neck when he flew from the orc-camp. Deftly he knotted one end into a three-coiled noose – a good knot for his purposes, being quick to draw tight but easy enough to loosen if one knew the trick, and perhaps most importantly, reliable when wet. As he worked, he listened warily, but the muttering and whimpering remained constant. The creature, it seemed, was no longer moving forward. Aragorn slipped his cloak over his head and folded it over his pack. Thus unencumbered he crept forward, exerting every effort to move noiseless through the mud.

Apprehension pricked at his mind, and he rather wanted to draw his knife. Who could say whether Gollum would be armed? Bilbo had seen so sign of any weapon but his quick fingers and his teeth, but that had been more than seventy years ago, and Bilbo had stumbled unwittingly on the creatures' lair. Now Gollum was far from the security of his hideaway, and in country as dangerous as this who would not carry a blade? Nonetheless, Aragorn settled for shifting the knife that he now wore tucked into his belt into a more favourable position. It would easily be seized if he had need, but he earnestly hoped that he would not. After fifteen years of searching he could not risk slaying Gollum in the struggle to capture him.

He paused in his creeping. The creature was near at hand now, and though Aragorn could not yet see him amid the tussocks of dead grass and the broad, squelching meres, he could make out the words of his whinging lament.

'...and we does, preciouss, we does! Poor, poor precious, _gollum!—' _And here he made a horrid gurgling noise in the back of his throat. 'Poor handses, poor handses, yess! Hateful, hot, hurting... poor handses, my preciousss!'

There was a sound of splashing and a sharp yelp. Aragorn held his breath, fearful that the creature had heard him, but after a moment the resentful soliloquy continued.

'How iss we supposed to go on, my precious, tell us that! Poor precious, _gollum_. No foods, no nice fishes in the pool, and nassty orcses, precious! Nassty orcses! Orcses, preciouss!' Here his voice grew shrill and panicked until it rose to a long, wordless shriek. Aragorn flinched involuntarily as his eardrums began to throb. Just when he thought he could bear no more, the ululation of rage and terror cut off abruptly. 'Nassty orcses,' the creature muttered sullenly.

Aragorn drew nearer, edging carefully around a clump of weeds. Then at last, at long last after fifteen futile years, he had his quarry in his sight. There, huddled low over a stinking pool, was a pallid, craven creature. Filthy, all but naked, coated in green slime, Gollum squatted in the mud with his emaciated legs sticking out to either side and his knobbed knees almost level with his rounded shoulders. His head was bowed low, giving him a strange silhouette against the light of the ghostly candles now flickering to life in the pools, and the bones of his spine seemed ready to tear through his discoloured skin. Even in the last light of evening Aragorn could see the hollows between his ribs and the sharp protrusion of his hip-bones. More like beast than hobbit was he, and as Aragorn watched him, keening and muttering to himself, he could not help a shudder of revulsion.

He crept a little nearer still. The creature was less than three rangar away, and still he seemed unaware of the watcher. Aragorn took a firm hold of the end of the rope, holding the loop loose in his other hand. Slowly, cautiously, he stretched his left leg forward, planting his boot firmly in the mud. For a moment he paused, listening for any break in the creature's mumbling that might indicate his presence was no longer a secret. Then swift as a cat he pounced, closing the distance between himself and his prey in two swift strides. Gollum whirled, his hands sending up a spray of vile water, and he shrieked – but by then the Ranger was upon him. The rope slipped over his shoulders and Aragorn yanked it taut, triumphant. He had his prize at last!

Only for a moment did the warm glow of success liner. Even as the noose grew tight, pinning his arms to his sides, Gollum was struggling. He thrust one bony foot against Aragorn's leg and hurled his body backward over the arm that was trying to seize him. Aragorn overbalanced, falling forward as his right hand shout out to close upon Gollum's ankle. This brought another shriek of fury, and before the Ranger's left hand could find the rope Gollum had doubled back over himself and was scratching ferociously at the fingers on his leg. One long, skeletal arm had worked itself free of the rope, and with it he lunged for his assailant. Aragorn rolled to the left, dragging the creature with him as he struggled to find some more useful hold.

Still Gollum struggled, writhing with such frenetic energy that it was impossible from one moment to the next to be sure what part of him one held. Aragorn lost his grip on the foot, but then for a moment he had an arm, then an ear. Each time Gollum managed to slip free, though the Ranger managed to keep him from gaining sufficient mastery to flee. They were lying in the mud now, grappling frantically while the candles of the Dead flickered around them.

It should have been no contest at all: Aragorn was twice the creature's height, hale and strong and if not well-fed at least not withered nor emaciated. Yet Gollum was quick and astonishingly strong, and as he howled unintelligible maledictions he beat at his would-be captor with foot and fist. The scrabbling hands closed on Aragorn's wildly flying hair, and the Man could not stifle a hoarse cry of pain as his scalp blazed in protest. It was as well he did, for the noise startled the creature, who twisted to backward to fix his pale eyes upon the Ranger's face. Taking advantage of the moment's hesitation, Aragorn struck out with his left arm, driving his fist into Gollum's side. The grip on his hair loosened abruptly as the bony thing crumpled into the blow. Aragorn forced the creature to roll with him, trying to pin the wiry limbs beneath his body. Gollum had his other hand free of the rope now, and he reached up to claw at Aragorn's eyes. There was a hot rush of fluid as the scrabbling nails drew blood.

Aragorn thrust up his arm, sweeping away the nimble fingers and attempting to immobilize the hand, but Gollum was too quick. His shoulder rotated in defiance of the laws of nature and he evaded the Man's attempt to pin him. Before Aragorn could compensate his head was jerking instinctively backward. As the nails tore into his flesh, glancing off his cheekbone, he realized with a sickening lurch that only his reflexes had saved his right eye.

Again he struggled to catch the flailing hand, all the while shifting his legs in a desperate bid to trap the creatures feet, which were kicking furiously against his hips and lower abdomen. Aragorn was fully cognizant of his absurd position, grappling so desperately with a thing less than half his size, but there was nothing for it. He was fighting now not merely to pacify a prisoner, but to avoid grievous harm. Never would he have imagined that such strength or tenacity might be hidden within so pitiful a creature, but it was plain that Gollum was not to be easily cowed.

Then, so swiftly that he was not entirely sure how he had caught the creature off-guard, Aragorn had the advantage again. He pressed it without reflection, snatching Gollum's arm and trapping the deadly hand under his left knee. Awkwardly he shifted forward to improve his hold without relinquishing the tenuous control he had over Gollum's flailing legs. The mire beneath them shifted under the Ranger's weight, and the shrieking, squirming creature was pushed further down into the mud.

He tried to exploit the inconstant terrain, and made an effort to wriggle from beneath his assailant, but Aragorn had anticipated such a tactic. He bore down with his full weight, and bowed his head as he pressed his forearm across Gollum's throat, applying enough force that he creature began to make harsh choking noises and his flailing grew less intense.

With his right arm thus occupied and both legs desperately trying to keep the rest of the creature pinned in place, Aragorn's left had began groping for the rope, which was tangled around Gollum's trunk and leg. If he could only catch the knot, he knew he would stand at least some chance of immobilizing his prisoner without resorting to baser methods.

Piercing anguish shot up his arm.

Aragorn almost lost control over Gollum's hand as his back arched against the unexpected agony. For a moment he was not even certain what quarter of his body had given birth to this pain, but ignorance did not endure long enough. The creature had sunk his teeth into the flesh of the Ranger's arm.

Aragorn tried to wrench free, but Gollum's jaws were stronger even than his limbs. Deeper the teeth drove, and Aragorn could feel the flesh puncturing, tearing. The next awkward twist made his elbow-joint pop, but he shook off the creature – at least momentarily. Gollum thrust his head forward, his long neck seeming almost to stretch upon command, snapping again. He grazed deep into the sinew of the Ranger's wrist, and Aragorn's field of vision was obscured with blackness. Yet his left hand was still free, and it flew forward almost of its own volition, closing with bruising force about Gollum's stringy throat. Tighter he squeezed, and tighter until the tearing teeth forsook their quest to strip every scrap of flesh from his bones.

Gollum flailed, clawing at the strangling hand. Aragorn ground his teeth against the sting of the ragged nails and the throbbing torment in his wounded arm, resolutely maintaining his hold. It was not an honourable way to subdue an opponent, but he had no strength left for nobler methods. He had to neutralize the creature now, or either he would lose his quarry or be lost himself. Gollum was choking in earnest now, wholly unable to draw breath. Of greater moment, his carotid artery had collapsed beneath the knowing hands of a healer: the blood that his craven heart struggled to pump was not reaching its destination. The malicious eyes grew vacant and his struggles grew weaker every second. Then they ceased entirely: at last the creature was limp.

In the brief window of time between unconsciousness and death Aragorn relinquished his hold. He rolled off of his captive, crumpling in the mud beside him. He lay there panting as desperately as if he had been the one with a hand upon his windpipe, quaking with exertion and pain, his strength utterly spent.

Yet there was little time to squander. Aragorn pushed himself up with his left hand, pressing his bleeding right arm to his chest. He would see to his hurts later. The important thing was to secure the creature before he regained consciousness.

Aragorn disentangled the rope as swiftly as he could. Only now did he realize how his prisoner stank. It was a reek discernable even amid the foul air of the Marshes: a mingling of offal and bodily secretions and rot, and something unidentifiable that defied even Strider's extensive experience with the vile and the putrescent. He tried to close his nose, swallowing the rising bile as he fought to keep his pinched stomach from roiling in rebellion. The green slime that coated his body – at least that which had not been transferred to Aragorn's clothing in the course of the struggle – seemed to indicate that he had made some attempt to _swim _in the stagnant pools of the Dead Marshes. That, at least, would account for some of the smell, and Aragorn shuddered to think what the creature could possibly have sought in the waters. All thoughts of binding his prisoner from head to toe fled. Aragorn had no wish to carry him: Gollum would have to walk.

The rope, then, would be needed as a lead. Aragorn undid his noose, his right hand clumsy and his left trying to compensate. He slipped the cord about the creature's neck and tied it awkwardly into a collar, too snug to be removed but not so tight as to be cruel. As he worked he tried not to look at the purpling circles on the creature's neck, four on the right and one on the left: the marks of Aragorn's fingers. The nausea of remorse mingled with that brought on by the stink, but Aragorn subdued it sternly. He could spare no compassion for his prisoner. Hundreds of miles lay before them, and if he was going to reach his goal he would have to be unyielding and pitiless.

With the knot firmly affixed and reinforced, the tail of the halter was less than half again the length of the Ranger's arm. None could be spared to bind Gollum's hands. Aragorn plucked at the skirts of his tunic, but that thought fled almost at once. He had already lost much of his cloak: a few strips more would not make any difference.

Yet he could not leave Gollum alone, unconscious or no. Therefore steeling himself against the hated task, he hoisted the unconscious wretch over his shoulder. When he tried to rise his legs trembled and he nearly fell, but his obdurately refused to submit to his tired body. With his left arm curled in support of the creature, he stumbled back to where he had abandoned his gear. Hastily he deposited his prisoner in the mud, ignoring the fresh ache in his shoulder and arm. With knife and teeth he produce sufficient lengths of dirty wool to bind Gollum's hands before him.

He hesitated at the sight of the bony appendages. The slimy palms and the long fingers were marred with abrasions and deep, suppurating wounds, and horrible marks that could be nothing else but burns. In the darkness little more than a cursory inspection could be made, but Aragorn's stomach turned anew at the sight. Small wonder the unhappy creature had yelped when it splashed its hands in the mere, and it was astounding that he had found the strength to fight with them. Even in the gloom such hurts were unmistakable: these were the marks of torture.

They wanted cleaning and proper dressing, but there was no time. As gently as he could Aragorn bound the creature's wrists together, keeping the knots as tight as he dared but ensuring they were still loose enough to admit his smallest finger between the bonds and the arm. He could afford no mercy now, but neither had he any wish to be cruel.

Gollum was stirring now on the brink of consciousness. It seemed he was more resilient than any Man, and many orcs: Aragorn had counted upon having at least a few minutes to investigate his own hurts. Hastily he took another strip of his ravaged cloak and tied the creature's legs together. Though as soon as dawn came they would be on their way the Ranger did not wish to wait out the hours with a prisoner that might try to flee. As his captive's eyelids fluttered and his lips began to work soundlessly, Aragorn recalled himself and hastened to thrust another piece of cloth into the creature's mouth, knotting it snugly behind.

He affixed the gag not a moment too soon, for the pale eyes shot open, glinting with the reflections of the unearthly candles. For a moment there was nothing but confusion in the haunted orbs, but terror and hatred swiftly flooded back. Gollum arched his back and tried to move his bound limbs. Aragorn snatched up the end of the rope and held fast while his prisoner flopped about in the mud like a fish flung onto the land. Though his heart was hammering in his chest, he did not move as Gollum struggled and muffled noises of rage filtered around the cloth. Only when his captive fell back in the mud, emaciated ribcage heaving with the exertion, did Aragorn kneel, taking hold of the halter near the creature's throat and leaning low to fix him in his gaze.

'Do not struggle,' he said, keeping his voice firm but free from anger or disgust. Small wonder the wretch was afraid: he had sprung upon him unawares, and other hands had ill-used him lately. 'No harm will come to you by my hand, provided that you do as I say. Do you understand?'

Gollum's eyes narrowed to malicious slits. He gave no further sign of comprehension.

'I wish to question you. If I remove the cloth from your mouth, will you cry out or attempt to bite again?' the Ranger asked. 'I do not wish to hurt you, but neither will I suffer such assault a second time.'

Still Gollum only stared, but he was trembling and beneath the hate there was fear. Aragorn's eyes flitted once more to the savagely abused hands. It did not look like orc-work: the wounds were too precise, too meticulously executed.

'Answer me yeah or nay,' he said sternly; 'for your life and mine hang upon the answer. Are you fleeing the servants of the Enemy? Are you being followed by orcs? By black Men of Mordor?'

Incoherent sounds filtered around the cloth. 'Yeah or nay?' Aragorn repeated. 'Nod your head.'

Gollum made no attempt to comply.

Bound and gagged the creature was in no position to trust him. If he wished to glean anything from his captive, Aragorn would have to make the first gesture of truce. With hands made studiously gentle despite the pain that shot through his torn right arm as he stretched it, Aragorn reached behind the creature's head and undid the gag. Even as he withdrew it, Gollum strained forward, snapping at his fingers.

'None of that,' Aragorn said sternly, grabbing a length of the lead and wrapping in around his hand. 'Tell me: are you being pursued by the servants of the Enemy?'

'Are we being pursued, precious, it askss us,' Gollum muttered, his voice hoarse and strangled. 'Yes, precious, pursued it iss. Hateful manses hunts us, precious, with cruel ropeses, yess…'

'Orcs!' snapped Aragorn. 'Are you being hunted by orcs?'

Gollum fell silent, glowering blackly at him. Then he curled in upon himself, launching up to bow his head over his lap as he raised his hands to his face. Before his captor realized what he intended, Gollum was gnawing on his bonds.

Quick as flash, Aragorn had the gag back in his prisoner's mouth. Gollum tried to struggle, but with hands and feet bound there was little he could do. The advantage of size was with the Ranger, and with a nasal wail that rang piercing through the air despite the gag, the wretch flung himself back in the mud, curling on his side and whimpering piteously.

Aragorn no longer wished to linger in these fens, even to interrogate the creature he had sought for so long. Gollum had been put to torment, and not long ago. If he had escaped the Enemy's clutches, there would be a pursuit, and who was to say how near the servants of Sauron were at this very moment? Aragorn had no strength for battle, nor any sword with which to stake his claim to the captive. He was not entirely sure that he had the wherewithal to fly, either, but at least he had to try.

A sudden irrational fear clutched at Aragorn's heart. He felt more exposed now than he had even before the Black Gate, for suddenly he had something to lose that was of greater moment than his life. He had the truth within his grasp, if only it could be wrung from the creatures lips. To lose it now would be more than his wayworn spirit could bear, and who could say what attention the noise of their struggle had drawn? He could not take the chance of losing his freedom or his prisoner now, when he had at last achieved his goal. His hands shook as he undid the bonds about Gollum's ankles.

'On your feet,' he commanded. 'We cannot tarry here.'

Questions could wait until they were in some safer place, somewhere they might take cover. Keeping a firm hold on the rope, he scrabbled for his pack and his cloak. Gollum was still lying in the muck, whimpering and muttering to himself behind the gag. Aragorn prodded him with the toe of his boot. 'On your feet!' he repeated more urgently.

The bony back rounded still more dramatically. Gollum's forehead was very nearly pressed to his knees. Aragorn had no patience left. Hundreds of miles lay between this place and the halls of Thranduil in Mirkwood, where it had long ago been arranged that the creature should be brought if ever he were found. If Aragorn did not assert his authority now, what hope had he of driving his captive so far? The Ranger swooped down, seizing the creature by the shoulder and shaking him mercilessly.

'Up!' he commanded, imbuing the word with the full weight of his will.

Gollum's legs worked wildly, splaying in improbably disparate directions. Aragorn tightened his hold and hauled the stinking carcass up, and after a moment's struggle he had his prisoner more or less upright. 'Now _run_!' he hissed, the light of Númenor flashing in his eyes. Before it Gollum quailed, but he began to move.

To move, but not to run: his gait was more of a stumbling, loping trot and he seemed poorly balanced, like one bereft of some accustomed support. But at least he was propelling himself under his own power, and as Aragorn drove him forward between the flickering corpse-lights the oppressive threat of discovery seemed to ease somewhat. Yet as he struggled through the shifting mires of the Dead Marshes, his head swimming and his right arm throbbing, Aragorn could see neither any chance of escape if indeed the enemy was upon their trail, nor how he could ever tread the countless leagues that lay between his weary body and the succor of the wood-Elves.


	17. Of Clemency and Necessity

**Chapter XVII: Of Clemency and Necessity **

For all his iron will, Aragorn could not outlast the night. Long before dawn he was obliged to halt, stopping on an island of relatively firm ground that was overgrown with brittle rushes. His temples were pulsing with a dull ache, and the pain in his right forearm had only intensified through his flight. As soon as he stopped moving, the world swam perilously about him, but he did not allow himself to fall.

The moment he paused, Gollum flung himself upon the ground, weeping and attempting to utter curses that were muffled by the gag. Aragorn knew that he ought to repeat his assurances that he would not harm the creature, but speech eluded him. Silently he eased himself down onto his knees, sparing not even a sigh. He could not afford to show weakness: far better that his prisoner think he had halted by design rather than out of desperation.

He took a frugal swallow of water, and forced himself to gnaw upon a piece of bannock. Gollum seemed insensible to his surroundings, writhing in the mud and twisting his hands fruitlessly against his bonds. Aragorn watched him with one eye while with the other he tried to examine his injured arm. It was a useless endeavour: the flickering of the candles of the Dead offered no illumination to aid him. He was loath to think what damage the creature's mouth had done, much less what poisons might be found upon his teeth, but without light he could neither assess nor properly dress the wounds. At least they were still bleeding sluggishly, and whatever filth was in them was thus prevented from settling in to fester.

Presently Gollum ceased his struggles and picked himself up out of the mud. He crouched with his bound hands on the ground between his feet, staring at the Ranger with hatred gleaming in his eyes. Aragorn studiously kept his expression inscrutable, though his innards crawled to be beneath such a malevolent gaze. What secrets lay behind those pale orbs? What dangerous thoughts lurked in the crafty mind that had so long outwitted him?

While the candles burned in the stagnant meres, the Ranger and his captive sat. Aragorn would have liked to lay down to rest, even if he could not sleep, but he restrained himself, bowing over his lap with his arm cradled against his chest, his left hand keeping a tight hold upon the rope. When the last of the ghost-lights winked out and the grey glow of dawn began to suffuse the mists, he rose and waited for his prisoner to do the same.

'Come, now,' he said when Gollum did not comply. 'We have had our rest: let us see if we can find solid ground today.'

From behind the gag, Gollum began hissing to himself.

Aragorn's jaw tightened in annoyance. He was not fool enough to expect cooperation, but this absolute reticence was grating on his already-taxed nerves. 'Come,' he repeated, more sternly.

Still Gollum did not move. Coiling the lead firmly around his hand, Aragorn began to walk. The creature would follow, he resolved, or be dragged like a sack of meal. For a few steps it seemed as if Gollum would chose the latter, but then the rope grew more slack and Aragorn, casting a perfunctory glance over his shoulder, saw his captive loping awkwardly behind.

They had not walked more than an hour, keeping a more or less northerly course, when Aragorn's boots struck earth that did not ooze or shift beneath them. Here the grasses were thinner and more pale, and there were no pools slick with slime, nor any whispering waters. They had come, so it seemed, to the northern border of the Marshes.

Though Aragorn was grateful to be out of the hateful fens, he was also wary. The protection afforded by the Marshes was gone, and they were on solid ground again; ground that would bear up the Uruk-hai and lend speed to any who pursued the creature. There was no cover here, but in the distance the foothills of the Emyn Muil loomed dark against the indistinct horizon. It was there that they must head with all speed, but as Aragorn quickened his pace he was faced with an unpleasant realization. Gollum could not move as swiftly as he. Even if he had chosen to cooperate, his shorter legs and unbalanced gait were no match for the long, even strides of the Ranger. Aragorn had not counted upon being thus hobbled, and the epiphany filled him with terror. If he could not coax some greater speed out of his prisoner, then the flight across the Wilderland would take months, if not seasons. Matters of food and water aside, there was the danger of pursuit. Even now he could not find cover quickly enough.

Yet in the end they came unassailed to high ground, and in the shelter of a boulder Aragorn sank to his knees. He drew in the rope, compelling Gollum to scuttle nearer. The captive did not look at all pleased with this arrangement – but truth be told, neither was Aragorn. Though some memory of the reek of the fens clung to his hair and mud-soaked garments, being now removed from the Dead Marshes he found Gollum's stench beyond overpowering. His disgust was tempered only by the knowledge that the creature could no more help its filthy state than he could his own.

It was time now to attend to his arm, which was still throbbing beneath the grimy sleeve. 'I must see what can be done about your handiwork,' Aragorn said, making a conscious attempt to sound amicable. 'Then I daresay you and I would each fare better for some food. I have little enough, but it is better than nothing.'

Gollum glowered at him, his thin lips working grotesquely against the gag.

'Come nearer and I will remove that,' Aragorn offered. He strove to smile kindly, but feared a weary grimace was all that he could muster. 'There is no need for you to go thus bound, if only you will refrain from biting. Once you have proved yourself worthy of that small trust, I may loose your hands as well.'

Gollum made no motion to obey. Had he not heard the creatures words the night before, Aragorn almost would have doubted his captive's ability to understand speech at all.

'Come nearer if you wish me to remove the gag,' he repeated, enunciating more clearly. The effort strained the healing lesion on his lower lip, and the resulting discomfort did nothing to restore his good humour. 'I will do you no harm.'

No _further_ harm, he silently corrected. Was it any wonder the creature feared him? The marks upon its neck were now excruciatingly black; a livid reminder of the force that had been necessary to cow him. A twinge of compassion stirred in Aragorn's breast, and he repressed it sternly. He knew much of the art of command, and whether dealing with young recruits or a dangerous prisoner he knew that he could make no apology for needful action. In the desperate days to come, only discipline would stand betwixt him and utmost calamity. If he could not command the creature's cooperation at least he must gain his grudging respect.

Or failing that, Aragorn reflected bleakly, his fear.

'Very well,' he said indifferently. 'If you will come no nearer you may wear the thing until I am finished with my arm.'

Gollum, of course, made no attempt to answer.

Aragorn wished he might turn away from the creature. He disliked any show of weakness, and before his prisoner such might prove dangerous indeed, but he did not dare to turn his back on his catch. With clumsy fingers he tied the rope to his belt, that his left hand might be free to tend to his right. Then he began, gingerly, to tug his sleeve up towards his elbow, revealing the wounds.

Somehow he bit back the noise of dismay, but he knew he could not keep his consternation from his face. He darted a furtive glance at Gollum. He had seen no more than half a dozen teeth in the creature's mouth, but it scarcely seemed possible that such damage could be done by so few. The wound in the midst of his arm was the more serious by far. Here there were deep punctures and long, jagged lacerations. The skin was torn and mangled, ragged strips of flesh hanging loose from the tears and curling unnaturally under the black, curdled blood. The places where dead flesh lapped over living were already hard with inflammation and gathering pus.

At his wrist there was less tearing: he had not wrenched his arm free that time, but strangled his assailant until lack of air cost him his hold. The punctures were deeper here, laced with traces of slime and filth and still oozing blood. The perforated sinews ached, protesting even the smallest movement. Here Aragorn could clearly count the marks of five teeth, narrow and sharp and vicious. There were other scratches that might have belonged to another – perhaps two. Surveying the damage, he shuddered to think what harm might have been done if Gollum had possessed a complete set.

Aragorn was at a loss as to how to wash and dress the wound. He had not a scrap of clean cloth remaining anywhere on his person, nor had he any means of heating water, nor indeed any water to spare. He found himself longing for the orc-liquor.

Gollum was watching him intently now, gauging his every motion. Under the scrutinizing eyes of his captive Aragorn could ill afford any show of hesitation or uncertainty. If he could not bind the wound with a clean bandage, a dirty one would have to do. His cloak – now less in length than his cote – was filthy, and so he cut his bandages from the skirts of his tunic instead. He spared a little of his water to lave the wounds, and then wrapped them tightly. For a moment the pressure was unbearable, but then the pain settled to a dull, persistent throb and the tightness in wrist and elbow eased. Aragorn worked his fingers warily, and the motion prompted little increase in his discomfort. Still he doubted the arm would be of much use for knife-work. If they were set upon now, he would be unable to adequately defend himself or his prisoner.

His prisoner. Aragorn loosed the lead and took it in hand once more. 'Come nearer, now,' he said, firmly but not unkindly. Gollum did not obey. Aragorn's hand twitched on the rope, ready to reel it in, but he restrained himself. If he were to have any hope of undoing the damage of his first encounter with the creature, he would have to refrain from such high-handed tactics. Though his long legs ached and his tired body protested, he pushed himself nearer, taking in the line slowly so that Gollum could not scurry any farther away.

'I will not harm you,' Aragorn repeated yet again. 'You are in my charge, and I shall treat you with all the consideration that I may. Now, I will remove the bit from your mouth, but if you attempt to bite again you will regret it. Do you understand? Nod your head.'

Gollum only glowered blackly at him, as if with his eyes he might sear a hole through the Ranger's heart. Unable to entirely restrain himself from an exasperated sigh, Aragorn reached around Gollum's head, three fingers still gripping the rope. Stretching his right arm proved painful, but he could not undo his knot single-handed. He eased the rag loose of its bindings and slowly, cautiously peeled it away from the creature's face. The wide mouth worked frenetically, twisting and stretching as a pale tongue darted against thin lips. Aragorn could not restrain himself from making a count of the creature's teeth. Six. He shook his head and returned to the task at hand.

'Are you thirsty?' he asked, stretching awkwardly to tug his pack nearer. He had no wish to share his bottles with the vile-smelling thing, and so he dug out the wooden cup and tipped a few ounces of fluid into it. He held out the peace-offering. 'Surely you must be thirsty. I promise you the water is clean, if not fresh.' In part to lend veracity to his words and in part because the sight and sound of water made his dry throat burn, Aragorn used his right arm to lift the bottle to his lips and took a meagre swallow.

Gollum's eyes were still narrowed in suspicion, but he made no attempt to shrink away as Aragorn put the cup between his bound hands, curling the long, knobby fingers around them. Again he tried to smile. 'There. Drink: you will feel better for it.'

He withdrew his hands, and Gollum lifted the cup as if he were going to quaff of the life-giving fluid within. But then his arms shot out and he hurled the vessel away. It landed with a dull sound among the rocks, the water running out over the ground.

White-hot rage seized Aragorn, and for a moment he was certain that he was going to strike the prisoner. Decency restrained him at the last, before he could raise his hand against a bound and helpless captive, but the anger remained. To waste water thus, out of spite, while they had too little even to ensure their survival, was a crime deserving of stern punishment.

Aragorn closed his eyes, setting his jaw. It took all of his strength of will, but when he spoke his voice was level and his fury was constrained. 'That was a foolish act, and one that I fear we will both rue. If you will not drink what I give you then you must go thirsty, for there is no water in these lands fit for man or beast.' He fixed his gaze on Gollum, the stern light of command in his eyes. 'I shall cosset you no more. I have questions that you must answer, for your sake as much as my own. Are you being pursued by the servants of the Enemy?'

Gollum's mandible was jutting out obdurately, and he said nothing. Aragorn tried a different approach.

'Your hands. Tell me what has so harmed your hands.'

A whimper welled up in the creature's throat. 'Handses, poor hands,' he moaned, drawing his arms in against his ribs and licking at his torn and oozing fingers. 'Hurts us, precious. We doesn't tell, so they hurts us. Burning, biting, bleeding – then we talks, precious. We answers hateful questions, _gollum_. But no more!' Here he glared at Aragorn, accusation and defiance in his eyes. 'No, no more questions, precious. We'll bite his nassty handses if he tries it, precious. No more questions, no more, no more...'

'You were interrogated,' Aragorn translated, trying to make sense of the roundabout words and the echoing phrases. 'You were put to torment, and you answered their questions. Who harmed you? Who hurt your hands? Orcs? Men?'

'Hateful manses, with his ropes and his nassty cups. Hates him, precious. Bite him, we will. Bite him and scratch him and dig out his eyeses. Ties our poor handses! Chokes us and kills us, he does! Hateful, hateful, _gollum_.'

'Were you interrogated by the servants of Sauron?' demanded Aragorn. His patience, much tried already by pain and weariness and the desperation of his plight, was wearing thin. The creature would not talk to him, and indeed seemed scarcely to hear his voice, and that he might have expected, but the senseless prattling to 'precious' was growing swiftly tiresome. While he wasted time indulging this quixotic creature, pursuit might be drawing ever nearer. He pressed harder. 'His men: were you questioned by his men? What did you tell them? How did you escape?'

'No! No more!' Gollum whimpered, twisting his wrists so that he might claw at his forehead despite his bonds. 'No more questions, _gollum_! We can't! We can't! Don't look at us, _gollum_! Leave us be! Go to sleep! Go to sleep!'

'Gollum!' Aragorn exclaimed sharply. 'You must answer me! Those marks on your hands are not orc-work. Were you held captive in Mordor?'

He waited, but Gollum's wretched whinging only continued along the same vein. Each sibilant syllable grated more painfully against Aragorn's frazzled nerves. It was obvious that the creature had been tortured, and questioned, and such prisoners were never turned loose. If they chanced by luck or by guile to escape, the pursuit was terrible and unrelenting. Orcs were trouble enough, but if the Men of Mordor on their fell steeds were after him, Aragorn had to know.

'Tell me!' he snapped. 'Who questioned you? Who tormented you? Who harmed your hands?'

'Hands!' Gollum wailed, stamping his broad feet against the earth like a small child in the throes of a fit of temper, even as his fingers tugged at his lank, sparse hair. 'Poor, poor handses! Poor precious, _gollum_! Questions, always questions. He wants it, he does. Wants it. Wants answers. Wants poor precious, poor precious, _gollum_... wants... no! Not for you! No! NO!'

Aragorn's fragile self-control abandoned him. The creature's panic was infectious, and under its influence the Ranger's own fears overcame him at last. 'Enough!' he cried. 'Enough of your ramblings: I must have an answer! _Are you being hunted by the servants of the Enemy_?' He reached out and seized Gollum's shoulder, as if by doing so he could shake him free of the terrible hysteria that gripped him.

It was a grievous mistake. Gollum reacted instantly to the restraining hand. He spun, jaws snapping. Only reflex and the knowledge of the damage those teeth could inflict saved Aragorn from another wound. Yet as he yanked back his arm he lost his hold on the rope. In the selfsame moment Gollum launched himself to his feet and began to run, loping and bobbing with the lead trailing behind him. Aragorn had no time to think or to reason out the best course of action. He could not lose his prisoner. He scrambled after Gollum, who moved now with speed that belied his slow progress across the lowlands. There was a terrible moment when Aragorn was unsure whether his failing strength would be sufficient to close the gap, but then Gollum overbalanced, bound hands powerless to help him, and tumbled to the ground. He clambered to his feet almost before he struck the earth, but the delay of a breath was all that the Ranger needed. His hand closed upon the end of the rope and he hauled in his quarry, choking and gasping and clawing at the collar about the scrawny neck.

Aragorn said nothing as he dragged the creature back to where pack and bottles lay. Gollum writhed, his slippery limbs and his wiry strength making it impossible to gain a firm hold. When Aragorn attempted to immobilize him, the gnashing teeth once more sought for flesh to tear. With his right hand Aragorn took hold of the creature's hair. Gollum yelped, but his captor, grim and resolute, pushed the gag into his mouth, forcing down the tongue and rendering his teeth harmless. Aragorn knotted the restraint tightly behind the creature's head, tugging to ensure that the gag would not slip. Then he tightened the bonds upon the creature's wrists, for these had been worried loose in the struggle. Finally, he took another strip of wool and tied the creature's feet.

Only then did he fall back against the boulder, his chest heaving and his head pounding. The niggling voice of failure clawed at him. So much for gaining the trust of his prisoner. His attempts to do so had been repaid with this: water needlessly wasted, further injury upon his person attempted, and most horrifying of all, the near-loss of his prize. Aragorn shifted against the stone, trying to ease his laboured breathing. He looked at Golllum, trussed up in the dust, still struggling against his bonds, and he tightened his grip on the rope. Whatever it took, he would deliver the creature safely into the keeping of Thranduil and his folk. Whatever the cost, Gollum would not escape. If mercy and decency could not accomplish this, then they must be laid aside. His purpose was to bring Gollum to Mirkwood, not to befriend him; and however much it galled him he must show no pity. Though he would not be cruel, he could not be kind. The concerns of Middle-earth were of greater moment than the hurt heart of one solitary Man. He would tame Gollum by whatever means necessary, and most important of all, his prisoner would not find another opportunity to fly.


	18. Into the Emyn Muil

_Note: "Time" from "Riddles in the Dark", __The Hobbit__, J.R.R. Tolkien._

**Chapter XVIII: Into the Emyn Muil**

Despite the risk of pursuit Aragorn knew he could go no further without sleep. His head ached with fatigue and even his good hand shook as he stowed his possessions in his pack. Injured as he was, he could endure no more. Nearly three days had passed since he had last submitted to his weary body, and if he did not take his rest now he would find himself utterly debilitated, as like as not in a place with less cover. So he drew his hood up over his face, wrapped his ragged cloak around his torso, and settled with his back to the boulder and his right calf across Gollum's bound ankles. This earned him a searing glare, but any movement on the part of the prisoner would rouse him immediately.

As it turned out he need not have bothered. Though slumber claimed him swiftly enough it was an uneasy sleep, troubled by dark imaginings and the occasional bolt of pain. Again and again he awoke, startled into wakefulness. Like a frightened child seeking reassurance his eyes would dart first to Gollum's bound body and then to the surrounding land. Then, his two fears proved for the moment unfulfilled, he would slip back into the shadow-world until his overwrought mind roused him again.

Yet poor sleep was better than no sleep, it seemed, for when he awoke for the last time with the Sun a faint whiteness behind the clouds above, he felt better for his rest. His head was clear and his vision sharp once more. Gollum was awake, lying motionless beneath Aragorn's boot and glowering blackly through slitted lids. Whether he had slept Aragorn could not say, but if he had not, so much the better. A swift assessment showed no sign of any enemy or watcher. It seemed his weakness had not cost him too dearly, and for that Aragorn was wretchedly grateful.

Slowly he bestirred himself. His right arm had stiffened and the first movements were agony, but once the violated muscles warmed the discomfort was tolerable. Aragorn dug out his drinking-bottle. His throat was taut with thirst and his lips were tortuously dry, but he took only enough to wet his tongue, and he was careful to turn away from Gollum while he did it. Though he would not give water to a captive who would only throw it away, and he must wait until thirst and want of food curbed his prisoner's violent temperament, he refused to dabble in needless cruelty.

He could not carry his pack as he had been, for his left hand was needed to manipulate the rope, and his right arm, injured as it was, was useless for such a purpose. Aragorn knotted the two sundered strap to one another and slung the bag across his right shoulder. Old hurts protested: he had all but forgotten the damage inflicted by orc-claws. Though the scratches were surely healing, the reminder of his torn cote was worrisome. He had many, many miles to travel, and each northward league would bear him into colder lands.

It would not do to dwell upon the obstacles to come – upon the winter that lay deep over the road before him, upon the deadly, open expanses of the Wilderland, upon the web of spies surrounding Dol Guldur, and the black heart of Mirkwood where the spiders, lesser than the beast he had left in Torech Ungol but terrible enough and far more numerous. Such thoughts would drive him to despair. Aragorn sternly suppressed the thrill of fear that bolted through his chest at the thought of the numberless feats of improbable daring that lay ahead. It was all that he could do to overcome the challenges of today: to rise up, and to induce his prisoner to move, and to get them both into the relative safety of the mountains before whatever servants of Sauron were seeking the poor wretch caught up with them.

He untied the knots that bound Gollum's legs. He wasted neither breath nor strength attempting to coax action from his prisoner, but took him firmly by one bony shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Gollum shifted his weight onto his legs, but the moment Aragorn released his hold he plunked himself down amid the rocks again, sullen defiance in his eyes.

'I will not carry you,' Aragorn said sternly, though despair chilled him. He had not the strength to bear the creature upon his back, nor indeed to drag him, and if he refused to move then there was an end to everything. 'On your feet.'

Perhaps Gollum could read his desperation, or perhaps the creature was merely taking control of the one thing it could. Whatever the case, he did not move.

Aragorn rounded the captive, fixing him with a cold, imperious stare. 'Rise and walk,' he commanded. That tone and that expression had mustered armies, and cowed the men of Sauron, and even bolstered the courage and resolve of the Wise, but Gollum alone of all the folk of Middle-earth seemed immune to its influence. His expression grew only more obdurate, and still he remained unmoving.

It seemed likely that the Ranger would have to resort to threats or blows. Setting his teeth against distasteful necessity, Aragorn returned to his original position, and with the toe of his boot he nudged Gollum's tailbone. He applied just enough pressure that the creature stiffened, dobutles anticipating a swift and painful kick.

'_Up_!' Aragorn cried, and though his voice cracked painfully in his dry throat, this time Gollum took heed of him. The prisoner scrambled awkwardly to get his broad feet under his body, and when Aragorn began to move he did not resist.

_lar_

Through the afternoon Aragorn cut a northward course, driving his prisoner before him with harsh words and the occasional threatening motion of his foot. Gollum was sufficiently motivated by fear, it seemed, though Aragorn could not help but wonder whether it was fear of his captor's boot, or of his erstwhile jailers doubtless trailing behind. Yet all through the day the Ranger saw no sign of any servant of the Enemy, and the shelter of the mountains drew ever more near.

Aragorn allowed a brief halt at sunset, but then pressed on despite the darknesss, stopping at last to rest a little in the waning hours just before the dawn. The hobbled pace he was obliged to keep filled him with unease. Alone in his present state he would have been hard-pressed to outrun hunting Uruk-hai. With his loping, stumbling captive it was impossible that their foes would not gain on them. Still he held out the fragile hope of eluding capture long enough to reach the mountains. There they might manage to shake off any pursuit, provided that he could induce Gollum to climb.

The next day the terrain was more difficult, as the foothills gave way to the first steep slopes of the Emyn Muil. Gollum had more difficulty than before in keeping his feet, for the rocky terrain was treacherous and often the creature slipped or slid among a shower of stones and debris. Aragorn had to be doubly vigilant, lest a sudden loss of footing should cause the creature to throttle himself upon the rope. At first he was driven almost to distraction by the necessary delays, but as the day wore on beneath the gloom of an impending storm, the Ranger found himself almost equally incapable of maintaining the pace.

His head throbbed and his wounded arm ached however he held it. His thoughts were ringed about with haze of pain and thirst. He drank sparingly, and though he knew that his body had need of food in order to keep up his strength, his appetite eluded him. The thought of waybread or dried meat made his empty stomach clench in protest. Nonetheless, when a stumble over a loose stone brought him crashing to his knees, head reeling, he took it as a sign that he had to eat anyhow.

His efforts to choke down the bread without taunting his deprived captive were hampered by Gollum's refusal to look away. As he forced himself to swallow Aragorn could feel scrutinizing eyes burning into his back. He turned at last, intending to attempt a trade of obedience for sustenance, but at the sight of his travelling companion the intended proffer perished upon his lips. Gollum's eyes were not filled with famished desire, but with cold and malicious appraisal. He had seen weakness in his captor and he was hunting for more.

Deliberately misinterpreting an expression that he knew all too well, Aragorn tilted his head to one side, frowning sternly. 'When I have your assurance that you will not attempt to bite me, only then will I give you food and water. Have I such assurance?

Gollum's eyes narrowed, the look of hatred and defiance surging back. He turned his face away in clear repudiation of the terms of truce.

'Very well,' Aragorn said as coldly as he was able. 'It is of little moment to me if you choose to go hungry.' As he tucked his half-empty bottle into his pack next to the empty one, taking quick stock of his remaining stores, he did not add that soon enough neither of them would have any choice in the matter.

_lar_

Though the bread sat uneasy in his stomach, it did him good. After only a few minutes Aragorn's head ceased to throb quite so mercilessly, and his hands stopped their shaking. When he went on again with Gollum scurrying before him, only the pulsing agony in his bandaged arm served to remind him of his compromised state.

For a while they made good time, skirting the base of a towering cliff. It was not yet near nightfall, but in that sheltered place it was nigh as dark as night. Far above Aragorn heard the rumble of thunder and he shivered, hugging his inadequate cloak more tightly to him. Despite the book of water that a downpour would bring, he prayed silently that this storm would spare him. He could feel the threatening tendrils of fever stretching from his injured arm, and he knew he could not endure a soaking tonight.

For the present, at least, the rain did not come. Still the clouds were low and menacing when they came to the foot of a broad talus. There were boulders here, many too large for Aragorn to encircle with his arms, heaped at the foot of a slope. Squinting into the darkness, Aragorn thought the mountain before him looked passable – certainly more so than any in the immediate vicinity. Furthermore the talus would serve him well: here a light-footed Ranger might move with greater ease than a crowd of iron-shod orcs.

Yet as he took the first steps onto the scree, Gollum hung back, sullen and stubborn behind his gag. Aragorn closed his eyes, wearily steeling himself for the contest of wills to come. When he looked down at the prisoner again, Gollum was bent over his arms, twisting his hands against the bonds that held his wrists and casting the occasional furtive glance of terror at his captor.

'Of course,' Aragorn sighed, hopping off the stone and back onto the ground. He bent, and Gollum shied away, hissing through his nose as his body tensed, anticipating a blow. Instead the Ranger took hold of his hands and began to work free the knots. 'You cannot climb with your hands bound,' he said. 'But if you attempt to remove the gag, or loose the noose, I will bind you hand and foot and drag you after me like the carcass of a boar.'

He was not at all certain that he could find it within himself to follow through with such a threat, but Gollum at least seemed convinced of his sincerity. When Aragorn withdrew the strip of binding wool the thin hands flew not to the prisoner's other bonds. Gollum scratched at his left knee and then scraped a little in the dirt. Satisfied that he was to be obeyed, Aragorn straightened his back and began the climb.

It was less arduous than it might have been, but the way was steep and soon the Ranger found himself using his hands almost as much as his prisoner was. At least, his left hand, for any effort to use the right brought terrible pain. Aragorn knew that he ought to inspect the wound and see what might be done, but by now it was too dark for such ministrations. Instead he pressed onward. Gollum proved to be an able climber, and soon he was outstripping his captor, hurrying ahead until the rope grew taut and obliged him to halt and wait for Aragorn to catch up. It was an eerie thing to see those two pale eyes glinting in the darkness ahead, hovering impatiently, filled with hatred.

At length they reached the end of the talus and began a steep ascent on solid rock. The incline was such that Aragorn was still able to walk more or less upright, but soon his legs were aching and the healing tear in his thigh stung. He longed to stop for the night, but the fear of pursuit drove him onward, ever onward, to gain another mile, another league that might forestall the inevitable.

_lar_

Dawn found the hunter and his captive upon a flat stretch of hill upon which a great bastion of stone rose ragged towards the sky. Gollum lay upon his side against the towering rock, restrained hand and foot to keep him from mischief while his captor rested. Near at hand Aragorn leaned for support upon the stone, huddled semi-prone beneath his tattered cloak. He was shivering violently, wracked with chills that he feared had little to do with the cold of the fading night air. As the sickly daylight approached, he forced himself to sit up, and dug in his pack for water and the little throwing-knife. His left hand was cold and clumsy, but he managed with some effort to undo the knots that bound his right arm. Peeling loose the makeshift bandage proved an excruciating process, but he set his teeth and endured.

At the sight of his mangled arm, Aragorn all but despaired. For two days he had felt the infection take hold, entrenching itself ever more deeply, but to see the red and glossy flesh, the wounds rimmed in black clots here and there torn open so that the carmine blood oozed out, the pockets of putrescence where the dead flesh held in the poisons, was almost more than his courage could bear. Such wounds could easily be fatal, and he had no materials for a poultice, nor any clean dressing, nor even water enough to properly wash the wounds. For a moment he was overcome with wrath at the thought of the creature who had caused this damage, but he reigned himself in sharply. Gollum could not bear the blame for this. He had lashed out in the only way that he knew how against a superior opponent. The state of his mouth was not his fault, and the lack of proper supplies certainly was none of his doing.

With the little knife and a coarse stone, Aragorn set about the ugly task of debriding the wounds as best he could. He drained the punctures at his wrist, and then tried to cut away the scraps of dead skin that were breeding the infection. More than once he had to stop, panting with pain, until he could muster the courage to continue with the gruesome ritual.

When at last he had done all that he could for himself, he spared a little water to rinse the wounds. Blood and pus mingled, trailing down the side of his arm in unpleasant orange rivulets. More water was needed to clean the worst of the filth from his bandage, and then he carefully wrapped the arm again, his hand trembling as he used fingers and teeth to knot the dressing.

Looking up, he found Gollum staring at him with something like horror in his great, pale eyes. He had likely not thought his captor doughty enough to endure such ministrations, Aragorn thought grimly.

'Ah, but I am,' he croaked, though of course Gollum likely had no idea what he was thinking. The effort of forming words made his dry throat sting. He rocked the bottle in his hand. There was scarcely more than a mouthful of water left, but his thirst was becoming once more unbearable – a further sign of fever. Aragorn raised the vessel to his lips but hesitated and then set it aside. There was one more thirsty than he.

'Gollum, I am going to remove your gag so that you may drink,' he said. 'If you snap at me then you will lose any hope of drink until we happen upon some rill or spring. I must tell you that I fear such a discovery will not be forthcoming: this is your last chance of water. Do not be a fool.'

He crept forward and fumbled with the knot behind the creature's head. He pulled back the strip of cloth, and then with finger and thumb drew out the damp plug of wool from the creature's mouth. Instantly Gollum bared his teeth, hissing with hostility. His dry lips were cracking and his tongue was visibly swollen, but he thrashed against the ground, attempting to sit up, his jaw working as he tried to attack.

Aragorn was ready. He waited until the gnashing mouth was at its widest, and then more deftly than he would have thought possible in his present condition, he rammed the ball of cloth between the threatening teeth. Gollum made a strangled choking noise, and fell back against the ground, straining against his bonds and whimpering through his nose. Grimly Aragorn replaced the gag, knotting it tightly.

'So be it,' he said, unable to wholly mask his regret. 'Then you must go thirsty, for I have not the will to carry this last any further, against the day when you will see sense and obey me.' Yet though he drank the water brought him no satisfaction, for it was too little to slake his thirst and his prisoner's torment galled his heart.

_lar_

On this side of the Emyn Muil, the mountains were bordered by lofty cliffs that rose like an impenetrable wall to the North. Aragorn had walked these lands once before, but he found that memories of that terrible time eluded him. As he drove his prisoner on, he tried to keep his eyes from the creature's tortured hands, for the delicate, precise pattern of the wounds was all too familiar and though he could not say with impunity what lieutenant of Sauron had inflicted such hurts, he would have staked a considerable wager upon his guess.

His own injuries troubled him less now, though whether that was a sign that his efforts had brought about improvement, or whether the mounting fever was merely dulling him to pain Aragorn could not say. He kept his right arm tucked against his chest while the left was occupied in holding the rope and catching him when the angle of incline necessitated the support of a third limb. Soon he found himself moving in a more easterly direction, with the cliffs to his left. There was a place, he knew, where the way was not so impassable. He had only to find it.

He longed to dwell upon pleasant thoughts as he walked; to think of distant lands and verdant valleys, of warm beds and gentle healing hands – but he knew that he could not indulge such a reverie. If once he slipped into pining for home, he would lose the will to carry on with his impossible task. Instead he tried to focus his attention on the bent form of Gollum, scrambling ahead at the end of the rope, but again his thoughts strayed. This time they meandered back through the years, out of the Ephel Dûath and through the vales of Harondor, into swamps and out again, over broad barren lands, under hills and deep through empty woods, and so at last back to a dark place far beneath the Hithaeglir where a misplaced hobbit had stumbled upon the lair of a menacing creature, escaping only by virtue of his wit and tenacity. Before he realized what he was doing, the Ranger found himself running the story through his mind, as Bilbo had told it to him fifteen years ago.

_This thing all things devours,  
__Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;  
__Gnaws iron, bites steel,  
__Grinds hard stones to meal;  
__Slays king, ruins town,  
__And beats high mountains down._

Aragorn did not quite comprehend that he had uttered the last riddle aloud until he almost tripped over Gollum, who had frozen in his tracks to stare back at his captor with dismay and terror in his eyes. They stood for a moment, regarding one another, before the prisoner shuddered and scurried away to the end of the rope again. Aragorn trudged onward, but grim amusement fluttered in his breast.

'So now you know that I know more of your history than you suspected,' he thought wryly, watching his captive clamber over a boulder and halt again, hunched over so that the knot of the gag stood almost upright. 'I wonder what you intend to do about it.'


	19. Onward and Upward

_Note: The wisdom of Hamfast Gamgee from "Journey to the Crossroads", __The Two Towers__, J.R.R. Tolkien._

**Chapter XIX: Onward and Upward**

That night the rain came. There was a roar of thunder that seemed to shake the mountains to their very roots, and the clouds that had been menacing for days were torn asunder. Instantly an icy deluge engulfed the Emyn Muil, battering the peaks and stirring the stones and drenching the Ranger and his captive with ruthless efficiency.

Aragorn's first instinct was gratitude. When the skies opened, he was able at last to gather water and to drink his fill. But soon enough his thirst was slaked and his bottles were heavy once again, and the warm euphoria of relief gave way to grim reality. His hair was already sodden, grimy rivulets running into his eyes and over his cheekbones, and his cloak afforded little guard against the chill of the storm. With a nudge he induced Gollum to move, and picked his way through the blinding rain towards the towering cliff. The rocky ground beneath his feet was slick and treacherous, and more than once he almost fell, but at last Aragorn found himself against the sloping wall of rock. Here he crouched in the lee of a ragged outcropping, hood drawn over his bowed head, to shiver until the storm passed.

Gollum retreated to the end of his lead, cowering against a stone and watching his captor with eyes that glinted even in the darkness. He seemed to give no notice to the rain or the cold, but he had plenty of attention to lavish upon the Ranger. Again Aragorn wondered what was going on inside the creature's insidious mind. What did he make of the afternoon's revelation? More importantly, what was he going to do about it?

There were no answers to be had. Aragorn tucked his infected arm against his chest and drew up his knees. He could not sleep here: if the rains prompted a landslide he would have to flee from this poor shelter. Yet he tried to rest his mind, listening to the feral roar of the wind and the mighty percussions of the thunder.

From out of the noises of the storm came another sound, a horrible squelching slurp. Aragorn stiffened, his head snapping up as he cast about, wondering what manner of strange creature might make such a sound, and, more importantly, how dangerous it would prove. But in the flash of sheet lightning that illuminated the rocky landscape for a moment he saw nothing.

The sound was heard again, wet and rattling, and Aragorn cast his gaze in the direction of the noise. When he realized what it was, he let loose a hoarse chuckle. Gollum was sucking upon his sodden gag, making use of the rainwater to slake his thirst.

'Make good use of this respite,' Aragorn warned, a rueful note creeping into his creaking voice. Though he knew that any water Gollum salvaged would only prolong their war of attrition, he could not begrudge the wretch his poor drink. It eased his conscience to know that his prisoner might have water without undermining his authority. 'Next time you may have to purchase water with obedience.'

Gollum lolled his eyes scornfully at his captor and sucked all the harder.

_lar_

By morning, the rain had seeped through the cloak to soak the back of Aragorn's cote and the shredded shirt beneath. His front was little more than damp, but the chill of the wet garments and the weight of sodden wool were something of a torment. He knew that the cold had done a little to alleviate his fever, and he made a conscious effort to count the storm a blessing. He set out across the slippery stones, driving a recalcitrant Gollum before him. The ever-present threat of the Ranger's foot seemed less effective now than it had been, and Aragorn wondered grimly how soon he would have to find some other method of motivating the captive.

As he walked, he kept a sharp look-out for some means of scaling the cliff. Alone and in his ordinary state of health and hardihood, he might have attempted a climb at any one of half a dozen places he had passed. Feverish and exhausted, with a captive in tow and one arm all but useless, he needed some easier place of ascent. If he could not find it, he would be obliged to make a broad detour eastward, out of the mountains and up into the Brown Lands. Such a delay would surely mean capture, and that he could not allow. He could almost feel the heavy tread of pursuing Uruk-hai in the lands behind. Though his stride remained as steady as the uneven terrain allowed, his heart began to hammer against his ribs.

The rain had spent much of the thick cover of clouds, and as the sun climbed higher the dark lands grew light. Aragorn cast his face skyward, drinking in the glow of the Sun beyond the thin greyish haze that still obscured her face. How he longed to walk beneath clear skies again! How long it had been since he had seen the blue vault of noontide, or the endless field of stars uncounted. Not for the first time his heart ached for home, and he drove back the longing. Clear skies he might have soon enough, if once he found a way out of these hateful hills. For the rest, he had long ago come to accept that it was not his lot to dwell in peace in the fair places of the world. Pining for them would serve no purpose.

As they walked Gollum's back grew more stooped, and time and again he would spare his hand from his strange scrambling gait to cover his eyes, whimpering behind the gag. At first Aragorn was puzzled as to what might be the cause of the creature's distress. Then he grew anxious. He could hear nothing behind them, but he could not disallow that Gollum might possess instincts that he lacked.

Halting beside a great spur of stone, Aragorn knelt, taking hold of one bony shoulder still coated with a memory of slime. At such close quarters the stench of his captive was overpowering, but the Ranger closed his nose and leaned nearer. His eyes locked with Gollum's and he held the creature's gaze with the full strength of his flagging will.

'What is amiss?' he demanded. 'What troubles you? Is there someone on our trail?'

Gollum whimpered and tried to look away, but he could not; the last scion of the House of Kings would not allow it. Aragorn tightened his grip. 'Nod your head: is there someone behind us? It will serve you ill to prevaricate: your life is in my hands, and I will not suffer either of us to be taken captive by the Enemy. What you have told him in the throes of torture I cannot guess, but be assured you will not be permitted to tell him more. Now answer: do you sense some pursuit?'

Gollum was trembling beneath his hand now, and Aragorn was just about to take this development as an affirmative answer when the skull-like head lashed from side to side with such force that it was a wonder it did not fly off of the scrawny neck.

'_No_?' Aragorn exclaimed, the syllable coming out harsh and startled and betraying more of his own state than he would have wished. 'Then why are you cringing in this way?'

In his surprise he had quite forgotten that the creature could not answer open-ended questions with a rag rammed into its mouth. He closed his eyes, sighing softly. 'Are we in imminent danger?' he asked.

But in his moment of weariness Gollum had torn his gaze away from his interrogator, and though Aragorn tried the creature refused to look at him, screwing his eyes tightly shut and resolutely ignoring any further attempts to question him. His patience wearing thin and his nerves rattling badly, Aragorn forced the creature to move forward.

As he walked, egging Gollum on, Aragorn reflected anxiously that the prisoner's denial did not mean that they were not being pursued. Gollum was a craven and deceitful wretch, bound neither by the constraints of honour nor even those of good sense. As he picked his way forward through the barren mountains, it seemed that Aragorn could feel the breath of Sauron upon his neck.

_lar_

Gollum was cowering in the shadow of the cliff, both arms thrust up over his head, emaciated hands clutching at his lank shreds of hair. Aragorn stood nearby, the line between them slack. The Ranger's shoulders were stooped, grey eyes deadened with dread. He reflected that at this moment he surely looked as unlike his puissant ancestors as any man now living. He had been walking for only a few hours, but he was weary beyond telling. His head ached, and his right arm, tucked close to his body, thrummed with hot discomfort. His clothes were dry now, his cloak stiff upon his back, and from the tremor in his one good hand he knew that the fever was once more raging through his blood. Yet he could not submit to his body's weakness. There was a terrible task ahead; not until it was accomplished could he rest.

He had found a place where the cliff dipped low, not more than seventeen or eighteen in height. Here the rock face was no longer sheer, but sloped slightly away towards its summit. The surface was pitted with fissures and handholds, and two-thirds of the way up there was a ledge that looked as if it might hold a man. That was important, Aragorn knew. Though he would have counted this an easy climb as compared to some he had made in his long journeys, in his present state he would need to rest.

The shadow of the cliff cast a gloom over the rock wall. If Aragorn waited too long, the Sun would sink low and it would become too dark to hazard the climb. Steeling his resolve, he twitched the rope. 'Gollum,' he said, as firmly as he could; 'do you think you can make this ascent?'

The creature made no move to answer, but his whinging ceased and he cast a critical eye at the cliff. It took all of Aragorn's resolve not to show his desperation. If Gollum could not or would not climb, there was no hope at all. He was too weak to carry such a weight upon his back as he climbed, and any wriggling on the prisoner's part would then send him falling to his death.

But Gollum, it seemed, felt this a worthy challenge. He cast a cold, disdainful look at his captor and picked himself up, hopping forward to the end of the rope. Startled by this unexpected show of cooperation, Aragorn followed him. The creature scurried to the face of the cliff and stood, almost straightening his back. Then, with the agility of a spider, he began to climb.

Aragorn lost himself in a moment of slack-jawed astonishment, but he rallied his wits and hastened after his prisoner. He took hold of a crack in the stone with his left hand, and stepped into another with his right foot. His leg trembled as he attempted to shift his weight, but after a dreadful moment when it did not seem he would be able to lift himself, Aragorn was off the ground.

He gained the first ten feet one-handed, with Gollum clinging to the rocks above him, hurrying swiftly on when the rope grew slack, and then waiting impatiently for his captor to follow. Yet quickly his left hand began to cramp, and Aragorn knew that he had to offer it some aid.

Gritting his teeth, he stretched out his right. To move his fingers was painful. To grip the rock was excruciating, but when he tried to put weight upon his wounded arm he was engulfed in unspeakable anguish. Desperately he clutched the rock with his left hand and his toes, keening softly as his vision grew dark. He thrust his right arm against his chest, pressing it between his body and the rock. Frantically he waited for the agony to pass, but it only dulled into a hot, aching torment.

Let his left hand cramp, then. He could not use his right.

With only three useful limbs his progress was tortuously slow. His arm and his legs were aching, his feet quivering as they found their next hold. And whenever he looked up to seek a fresh niche in the rock there was Gollum, hanging from some impossibly small crevice like a great malicious bat, glaring impatiently downward.

At last he reached the ledge, hauling himself onto it with one last valiant effort. It was smaller than he had hoped, but wide enough nonetheless for him to balance his torso and thighs. His calves and feet hung off the edge, but he had no strength to sit up. He lay there long, his chest heaving and his muscles twitching.

Presently he collected himself, tucking in his tired limbs and leaning his head against the rough stone wall. He raised his head and there was Gollum, not three feet away, clinging like a limpet to the rock and leering at him with something like triumph in his great, cold eyes.

It was that, more than anything, that roused Aragorn from his stupor. Though his legs protested and his left shoulder sobbed in protest, he got to his feet, clinging to the wall. Here its angle was more pronounced, and for that he was grateful. It would make the rest of the climb easier.

His unsteady mouth curled into a wry smile as Gollum scurried upward a few more feet, as far away from him as the creature could contrive. 'I am not defeated yet,' Aragorn said. 'Though I confess I lack your considerable talent, I think we shall both make it safely to the top.'

After a few feet more, however, he was beginning to doubt his earlier confidence. He was exhausted and his overtaxed body could not take much more. A despairing heavenward glance told him that he had several ells yet to travel, but though there were footholds aplenty he was not certain that he could find the strength to continue.

Gollum, of course, had been waiting for this moment. As Aragorn once again hauled himself upward with his left hand, the creature took hold of the rope hanging from its neck and tugged violently upon it. As it bit into Aragorn's wrist, his left hand slipped.

Instinctively he thrust out his right, ramming his fingers into the nearest crevice. He drove his boots against the rock, and even as the cry of anguish tore from his lips, he arrested his fall. Blinded by pain he could not move, but he did not let go. He could feel the wind at his back, flattening his cloak against his body, and there was a tug at his wrist.

Swiftly he seized the rope, yanking insistently upon it. A shower of loosened pebbles rained down upon him as Gollum hastily compensated. Aragorn released the rope before his prisoner could fall, and threw back his head, fixing pain-filled eyes upon his adversary.

'Do not be a fool!' he snarled between teeth clenched against his torment. 'If I fall I cannot but take you with me: you have no means of cutting the rope. Either both reach the top, or both fall. Do not hinder me.'

This speech, it seemed, took the last of his strength, for he could not move. His legs were shaking and so great was the pain from his wounded arm that he doubted that he could induce the muscles to work at all, even to release his hold on the rock. Perspiration was blinding him and his breath came in shallow, stunted wheezes.

Again he felt something tugging on his left wrist, but he had no strength to react. Then suddenly soft, sticky fingers were closing upon his flesh, taking hold of his hand and guiding it upwards. His fingertips felt a fresh hold and closed upon it. There was a sound of scuffling feet and another downpour of debris, and something gripped his right hand. Instinct drove him and he hauled himself up, fumbling with one foot to gain the next hold. In the critical moment the force that held his right hand pulled, offering the extra leverage that he needed. Then the pressure released, and as Aragorn blinked to clear his vision he caught sight of two enormous eyes not six inches from his face. Then Gollum scurried on ahead, this time leaving the rope slack.

Momentum drove him now. Aragorn clambered upward, oblivious to the agony in his right arm or the weakness in his left. He could scarcely make out the features of the rock, and it seemed the climb would never end, when his left hand reached out for the next hold and found only empty air.

The shock of this unexpected change was almost his undoing, but before he could overbalance Gollum hauled on the rope again, pulling his arm forward. His elbow struck the cliff's edge and bent, and Aragorn's hand slapped down upon flat earth.

Whence came the strength for that exertion Aragorn never learned, but somehow he found himself slithering forward, bent first at the arm-pits, then at the waist. Then he was prone upon the ground, breathing in dust and gravel as his left hand dug into the earth against the unbearable anguish coursing through his body. Hot tears ran from his eyes onto his forehead as his body was wracked with a spasm of utmost exhaustion. His right arm was a burning brand of torment unknowable, and his heart was thrumming as if it would burst.

Then slowly, so terribly slowly, all this ebbed away. He lay there motionless in the dirt, subsisting in a fog of indistinct pain. But his pulse slowed and his panting leveled off, and finally he was able to roll to the left, landing on his back with a heavy huff of breath. He craned his neck, following the line of rope with his eyes. There, three feet away, Gollum squatted amid the stones, picking at his left great toe with the fingers of one long hand. Feeling Aragorn's eyes upon him, the prisoner raised his head. He scowled blackly and shuffled further away, drawing taut the rope. Then he resumed the study of his feet as if he had never before noticed them hanging there, of all places, at the end of his legs.

Aragorn let his head fall back into a position that took no effort to maintain. He stared dully upward at the hazy sky stained red with the setting sun, and the right corner of his mouth twitched. He had survived another day, a most difficult day. Somewhere in the cobwebs that enshrouded his mind, he could hear Bilbo's voice over the crackling of a bright, inviting fire.

'Do you know, Dúnadan, my old gardener used to say where_ there's life, there's hope._ I quite think he was wiser than he knew, wouldn't you agree?'


	20. Respite from Toil

**Chapter XX: Respite from Toil**

Aragorn did not know what to make of Gollum, nor indeed could he guess what Gollum made of him. Uncooperative at best and openly hostile at worst, he squatted now at the end of the rope, watching his captor out of the corner of one eye.

Driven by fear of what might lay behind, Aragorn had managed to drag himself away from the edge of the cliff and into the mountain passages. Here, clefts in the rocks allowed access to the next narrow path, and the next beyond that. There were few inclines of any significance, and for the most part the ground was bare and solid beneath his boots. Yet he was weak, worn down by his wounds and by the sleepless nights. The climb had left him bereft of any strength to walk on towards dawn. Not long after sundown he had halted here, in the shelter of a massive pillar of stone.

Now the first grey light of day was leeching slowly across the sky. It was time for the improbably companions to rise up and start on their way, but Aragorn found himself incapable of motion. His left limbs felt like a pair of millstones, weighing down his body. His right leg was thrumming with a bone-deep ache that followed the fledgling scar tissue along the spider-wound in his thigh. And his infected arm burned as if it had been thrust naked into a vat of molten iron.

He knew that something of his discomfort was showing in his face, for Gollum was watching him intently now, his unwieldy skeletal head turned to stare down his emaciated shoulder. There was hatred in his eyes no less intense than it had been in the foothills behind, before their strange climb, and yet though his hands were not now bound he made no move to tamper with the halter about his neck or the rag still stuffed into his mouth.

Attempting to school his features, Aragorn stared back. He fixed his weary eyes on Gollum's gleaming orbs, as if by doing so he could read the creature's heart. Yet insight eluded him. It seemed most unfair. Gollum knew something now of the man who had caught him. He knew that Aragorn had some connection to Bilbo Baggins, whom surely he remembered as the one who had dabbled in riddles and come away with his dearest treasure. Doubtless he knew or suspected that the Ranger took no pleasure in the force necessary to subdue him – and that knowledge was dangerous indeed. Worst of all, he knew that Aragorn was weak, and growing weaker with each tortuous mile. All this Gollum knew, and yet to Aragorn he was as unfathomable now as he had been on the night of his capture.

Gollum's actions on the cliff had shaken his jailer badly. Aragorn had been quite secure in his assumption that the prisoner was motivated by malice alone, and thus Gollum's attempt to unseat him had come as no surprise. But then, of his own volition, Gollum had taken Aragorn's hands and aided his ascent, and this was troubling. While it was true that he might have been acting only out of a desire for self-preservation, saving the Ranger so that he was not also dragged to his death, the alternative could not be disallowed. It was possible that Gollum had acted with temperance – even mercy. Certainly he might have dispatched his escort at the top of the cliff, strangling him or even eviscerating him with his own knife while Aragorn was too overcome to defend himself. That he had not seized the opportunity spoke to more inscrutable motives. It was this that unsettled Aragorn. A creature driven by hatred was easy to guard, his actions straightforward and predictable. A prisoner at war with himself could not be relied upon to adhere to a set pattern of behaviour. The need for vigilance, then, was only intensified by Gollum's ambiguous actions.

Yet so too was the need for clemency, for if Gollum had taken pity upon the struggling Ranger, it behoved Aragorn to repay that kindness. Perhaps today the prisoner would submit to having the gag removed, that he might eat a little.

Aragorn tried to speak, to bid Gollum draw near, but his voice would not obey him. He closed his mouth, swallowing with a tremendous effort. His throat stung. Most likely he was in need of water. One of the bottles hung heavy from his belt, and the other was tucked into his pack, lying awkwardly against his hip with its one makeshift strap taut against his chest. Distantly he thought of moving his left hand up, only a short way, to loose the bottle and bring it to his lips that he might dig out the stopper with his teeth and take a mouthful of rainwater… but none of those events transpired. He could think about moving all he wished, but his body seemed determined to remain still.

For a while he did not resist, content to sit there with his back against the stone, blinking dumbly at Gollum. It seemed so difficult to move, even a little. Far simpler to lie here, languishing in thirst, until he slipped at last into gentle oblivion. Sleep called to him; not the healing sleep that eased the heart and restored the body, but a warm, insidious slumber within the hot embrace of fever. He could feel himself sinking into the tempting realm of unconsciousness, sliding inexorably beneath the surface of the waking world like an incautious traveler caught in a sucking mire. Down, down into darkness…

With an undignified snort he roused himself, the cold hand of terror snatching him back from the heat and the gloom. He must not submit! He had a prisoner to watch, and to bring safely to Mirkwood. He could not give in to his beleaguered body and its mounting fever. Even the luxury of sleep must be denied, until he secured his captive and took steps to ensure that he might wake again. Driven by a desperate surge of will, he got the drinking-vessel to his lips and quaffed a tepid mouthful.

The water did something to clear his addled wits. He set aside the bottle and drew his good hand across his brow. It came away sticky with perspiration. His fingers were cold and could not gauge the feel of his skin, but he did not doubt that he was burning with infection. Objectively he reflected that what he needed was a warm, dry place to sleep, where he might have clean water aplenty – both to quench the fire raging unchecked in his veins and to boil, that hot compresses might be applied to his festering arm. Given these two things, and perhaps some wholesome food, he would swiftly recover his full vigour, but he had nothing; not even the wherewithal to rinse his makeshift bandages. If his circumstances did not swiftly take a turn for the better, he would never reach Mirkwood.

'We're moving,' he announced, the simple syllables grating painfully in a throat still raw despite the boon of water.

Gollum's eyes narrowed instantly.

'Come, on your feet. We cannot stay here.'

Still, Gollum did not stir. Aragorn knew that his command held little weight while he sat thus, supported by the rock and teetering on the brink of an unhealthy slumber. With an effort that almost cost him his hold on consciousness, he struggled to his feet. His injured arm he clutched to his breast while with the other he shored himself up against the stone, drawing taut Gollum 's lead. An abyss of blackness swam before his eyes and the world spun wildly around him. He pressed the side of his face against the rock, old bruises aching under the pressure of that desperate contact, and fought with all his fading will to keep his feet.

Somehow he did not fall, and when at last he raised his head, he began to shuffle forward without waiting for Gollum to rise. He half expected to have his arm jerked backward when his captive refused to move, but as the cord tugged at his scrawny neck the prisoner sprang to his feet and followed like a sullen dog.

Aragorn had not gone far when his scuffling feet skidded onto softer ground. He froze immediately, his muddled mind not fully cognizant of the ramifications of such a change, but his harried instincts crying out for caution. It took him a moment's laborious puzzling to realize that suddenly the ground was not so rocky, but covered over with grey-brown earth. A dizzying glance at the surrounding land revealed no imminent threat, and so he continued, walking on the borders of a nightmare and now and then twitching his left wrist to encourage Gollum to follow more promptly.

Soon it became plain that he was in some sort of shallow gully that wound its wandering way through the mountains. The skeletal remains of bramble-bushes clung here and there in crevices of the rock wall, still stubbornly upright in their poor soil. To Aragorn they seemed like the last memories of life in a place long since given over to death. He shuddered, and his palpitating heart skipped unsteadily in the cavern of his chest.

Each step became more difficult, and with each slow minute that passed the effort of remaining upright was becoming almost more than the Ranger could manage. Soon he would reach the point where he could not go on. His legs would fail and he would fall, landing doubtless on his injured arm in a blinding euphoria of anguish. And then – he would not rise again, unless to crawl into the comforting shadow of some sorry thorn-bush, there to wait for the sleep from which none awaken.

He could hear the mountains laughing, singing out their cruel mockery of the foolish mortal who had dared their paths in such a state. They sniggered and chortled and chuckled, relishing every painful step, ever moment of his suffering. They giggled and rollicked and bubbled and rushed...

Aragorn halted, swaying unsteadily. Gollum stopped short of scrambling into his captor's legs, then took a look upward and scurried to the end of the rope, where he would be less likely to find himself pinned under the weight of an unconscious Ranger when his escort fell. Aragorn paid little heed to the creature: he was listening to the laughter of the mountains as abruptly he realized that it was not laughter at all, but the sound of running water.

Eagerly he stumbled forward, dragging Gollum behind. If there was water, fresh water, he might lave his brow and beat back the fever. He might wash his wounds. He might even, if he dared, gather dried brush for a fire and see about leeching out the poisons from the marks of Gollum's teeth.

Yet when he reached the place where the stream rushed away into a pool that cut into the rock wall of the gully, he had only the strength to crumple to his knees without crashing down upon his injured limb. He sat there motionless, staring into the grey depths of the thrice-blessed rill. Near him Gollum, for once too preoccupied with his own needs to glare at his captor, squatted down and began to paddle his wounded hands in the water, making unpleasant noises deep within his throat.

For a long time Aragorn sat there, insensate. But his will returned at last, and he bent his body down, dipping his left hand into the cold water and splashing it up onto his fevered face. The gentle slap of the fluid restored something of his good sense. He repeated the motion, and again and a third time. Beads of water clung to his brow and tracks of murky wetness ran down his face and his neck. Finally he braced his left hand against the edge of the riverbed and leaned down to plunge his whole face into the water. He held his breath as the cold took hold of his skin, easing the fuzziness of fever and restoring some vigour to his heart.

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He lingered for a long time, content like his prisoner to dabble in the stream, bathing his face and his hand, and even going so far as to unlace the first few inches of his cote, that he might dribble water onto his neck and breast. But as his faculties returned out of the mists of fever, Aragorn set about other necessary tasks. He eased his right arm into the water, holding it beneath the surface though the torment of the cold was almost more than he could bear. As he waited with gritted teeth for the stream to soak the bandages, he reminded himself that this was less painful than trying to remove the dressings dry, with the first new flesh and the crusted blood and putrescence still fusing them to his wounds.

When he deemed the bandages were wet enough, he worked loose the end and unwound them slowly. He hissed in consternation as his forearm was revealed in all its varicoloured splendour. Around the edges of the first set of wounds, the flesh was white and lifeless, peeling away from growing abscesses. Yellow, curdling pus covered the raw new skin beneath, and several of the wounds were bleeding blackly. Purple bruises surrounded the hurts, and red striations radiated outward over the pale skin of his arm – the marks of entrenched infection creeping into his blood.

The puncture-wounds by his wrist were less gruesome to look upon, being swollen and glossy almost like an adolescent's blemishes. One looked disconcertingly dark, but the others were oozing orange tendrils of ichor and infection.

Aragorn turned his eyes resolutely from the wounds and set about washing his bandages. He swirled them one-handed in the shallows, then set them on a stone and beat them with another. Then he rinsed them again, and again pounded the filthy water from them. This process he repeated until the fluid driven from the cloth ran clear, and though he knew such rough handling would shrink the wool, he was glad of the opportunity to do it. Much could be accomplished with tight binding and clean dressings.

He turned back to his arm, sniffing resolutely for any hint of the sickly-sweet stink of decay that would herald his death. All that he could smell was the sharp memory of shed skin and the coppery tang of stagnant blood. Luck then was with him. As he eyed the wounds, however, he came to an important conclusion. Whatever the risks he must have a fire: he needed hot water to draw out the infection.

By the waterside, the bracken was thick, but it was not dry enough. Aragorn could not take the chance that these branches had life left in them, and might then smoke. He moved to shuffle on hand and knees towards the wall of the gully, where the bushes were brittle and dead. He was stopped by a fearsome tugging on his wrist. Gollum had seized the rope just below the knot that encircled his neck, and he was hauling on it with one hand while with the other he was still paddling in the pool. He was reluctant, clearly, to leave the water.

Rather than argue, Aragorn crept back. The fuel near the stream would have to serve, then. In his weakened state he found that he cared less for prudence than he did expedience. All he wished to do was see to his wounds and dress them again, that he might lie down to rest. He gathered such wood as seemed best-suited to his purposes, and set about building his fire.

Using his flint proved a greater challenge than Aragorn had anticipated. His right hand was useless, scarcely able even to shore up the steel against his knee, and his left shook with fever. Several times he dropped his tools, and more than once his sparks failed to catch the tinder of grubby linen, but at last he had a little flame that he coaxed and fed with the care of a shepherd tending a sickly lamb, until at last the bracken caught alight.

Breathlessly he watched, anxious lest his fire should send up a pillar of smoke to announce his location as clearly as a cross-roads marker. But the fuel was dry enough, and what pale tendrils there were the thicket under which he crouched quickly dispersed. While the blaze took hold and the embers grew hot, Aragorn dug out his wooden mug and collected small stones.

The process of heating water was slow and weary. He let the stones grow hot, and dropped them one by one into his cup. When at last he deemed the water hot enough he poured it over his wounds, eyes screwed tightly closed against the pain. The first sorry dribbles were not enough, and the process had to be repeated over and over again, until Aragorn lost count of the cupfuls of heated fluid.

Then he set to work with knife and stone again, cleaning away the newly-dead flesh and such of the pus as had not yet been washed away. At last the wounds were pink and naked, the dark blood trickling back. He drained the puncture-marks and dug out the plug of cruor that occluded the black one. Then he heated water again and washed his arm once more, and with fingers that trembled with pain and enervation, he bandaged his arm again. The pressure of the clean dressing soothed his torment, and Aragorn allowed himself a low, slow moan of relief.

Gollum, who had turned his head violently away when first Aragorn had produced the little orc-knife, looked back at him now. The act of turning lifted his tortured hands out of the water. Aragorn felt a reflexive wrenching of guilt; he had seen to his own hurts first, at the expense of one who was in his power. That he could have done little for Gollum in his prior state did little to mollify him.

At least he could rectify the situation now. He filled his cup again and heated the water.

'Come here,' he said. 'Let me see your hands.'

Gollum glanced anxiously down, his long fingers twitching. Then his eyes darted to the abandoned blade and the dark stains in the underbrush.

'I will not hurt you,' Aragorn tried. 'I have some skill as a healer. I can ease your discomfort.'

Frantically, Gollum shook his head. The effect was almost comical, but Aragorn was too wracked with fever and a niggling horror to appreciate it. Again, Gollum looked furtively at the knife, and again his chin wagged from side to side so that his lips chaffed against the gag.

'You will not need such treatment as I have required,' Aragorn promised, realizing the source of the prisoner's reluctance. 'Let me wash them, at least. They will heal more swiftly for it.'

Again Gollum shook his head. Aragorn sighed wearily. He took the cup and leaned forward, setting it halfway between his prisoner and himself. 'Wash them yourself, then. Such hurts cannot go long untended.'

Gollum lashed out with one long foot, kicking over the vessel. At this repudiation of his attempts at humane treatment, Aragorn felt a hot flush of anger, but it faded swiftly into a profound weariness. His little fire was dying now, and his wounds were clean. If Gollum would not cooperate even for his own benefit, then so be it.

He kicked out the last of the embers with the side of his boot and then edged away from the detritus of the fire. Gently but firmly he reeled in the rope so that Gollum, however reluctant, was forced to hop nearer. Aragorn took the strips of cloth that he had been using to bind his prisoner, and in an exertion that would have been impossible prior to tending his arms, tied Gollum's wrists and feet. The creature struggled, but less than he had before. Perhaps he, too, was worn down from the hard ascent and the long nights of sleepless enmity. When Aragorn was finished, Gollum lay in the underbrush, his legs writhing only a little.

'There,' said the Ranger. 'We do not trust one another at all, I think, but I must sleep and therefore you must be secured. Rest while you may: we have a long road before us.'

Hatred shone from the pale eyes, but Aragorn was too weary to care. The effort of immobilizing the creature had sent his right arm throbbing again, and it was with numb gratitude that he eased himself down amid the bracken and slipped into a wary sleep.

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He awoke perhaps four hours later to find Gollum curled into a ball, his bound limbs tucked awkwardly and his malicious eyes hooded with paper-thin lids. He had all the seeming of a being deep in slumber, but his emaciated ribs were rising and falling too quickly. Aragorn guessed that the prisoner had been watching him all the time he had slept, and had taken up this position the moment his captor began to stir. The thought was unsettling, but at least the creature had made no move to throttle him in his sleep.

The fever still lingered and Aragorn's throat was burning. He inched towards the water's edge, careful not to overextend the line between himself and the prisoner. He bathed his face and drank a little, then wetted his hair and tried to work out some of the snarls with his fingers. The effort proved too much for him, and for a while he lay there with his cheek against the rocky creek-bed, trying to summon his strength once more.

When he felt well enough to sit up, he rummaged in his pack for the last of his bannock. He gnawed the waybread slowly, cognizant of the reluctant stirrings of his stomach. Then he drank again, this time from his bottle, and settled with his back against the stems of a sturdy gorse-bush to watch the shadows shift as the Sun travelled far above.

All through the afternoon he languished there, now dozing fitfully, now creeping back to the water's edge to lave his face and neck. After the hideous, barren lands through which he has passed, this dying gully seemed a place of great peace and beauty, and his weary heart craved both. As he looked about he thought he could imagine this hidden vale as it must have been long ago: green and verdant, filled with every variety of hardy mountain life. He thought of other such places he had seen, amid the lofty, snow-capped peaks of the Hithaeglir, or the noble heights of the Ered Nimrais between the Hornburg and the fastness of Edoras. For a moment, as he walked in memory, it seemed he was a young man again; bold and fair and valiant, driven by unbridled optimism and visions of a bright and hopeful future.

And all his errantries and labours had come to this. The mighty Thorongil, marshal of the Mark, captain of Gondor, whose voice had rallied men to victory, was now but a wayworn wanderer, struggling against the forces of probability and the travails of his own injured body. He was caught up not in great deeds for the glory and preservation of the West, but in a tedious and bitter and mayhap hopeless chore.

Aragorn beat back the stirrings of a self-pity that he would never have felt, save that the fever was wearing on his will and weakening his resolve. True, this unhappy drudgery would prove no deed of glory, but it was necessary. Much hinged upon this journey; perhaps the very fate of the world. This was no lofty quest, to be memorialized in song and story. No tales would be told of this dark road. When it was done and the prisoner was delivered safely to Mirkwood, no one would even remember who had brought him thither or what had been endured in his finding and capture and on the long Northward road. Yet glory and renown were of no consequence: if he survived to succeed that would be reward enough. And if any good came of his struggles, he hoped he would find the humility to be grateful.

In the meantime, his sole focus must be to bring himself and his captive to Thranduil's realm alive, and as he closed his eyes against another wave of nausea, Aragorn reflected that that struggle would prove quite difficult enough.


	21. The Safer Path

**Chapter XXI: The Safer Path**

Progress through the mountains was slow. Though the pain in his arm was lessened and his other limbs were no longer so unsteady, the fever still smouldered in Aragorn's breast, threatening at any moment to flare up again and overcome him entirely. He could not walk more than four or five hours without a halt, and his pace was not what it ought to be. Every hour's delay filled him with dread: he had counted on the passage of the mountains to give him a strong lead over an enemy that would either have to toil behind with less-than-Elven agility, or else circle around the Emyn Muil – a journey of five or six days at least. Now he feared there was little hope of avoiding an encounter with those who pursued the creature in his keeping: inevitably they would close the gap and overtake him.

Despite this mounting fear, Aragorn took some small comfort from the fact that he seemed to be making progress with his captive. Want of food and water was beginning to tell on Gollum. There was a glassy look to his great eyes now, and the hollows of his face seemed more pronounced. More telling still was his behaviour. He no longer fought when his keeper bound his hands and feet, and though he obdurately refused to offer assurance that he would not bite, his rejection of Aragorn's oft-repeated offer to remove the gag grew slower every time.

He seemed to be near to capitulating, and Aragorn hoped that he would do so soon, while there was still something to give him. Thought the occasional north-flowing spring kept the Ranger well supplied with water, the dried meat of the Men of Ithilien was all but gone. Aragorn had little appetite, for fever quelled the desire for food, but even so he had to eat a little each day. His stores would not last long.

Dusk was gathering over lands deeply shadowed by gravid clouds when Aragorn came at last to the summit of the last great foothill of the Emyn Muil. He halted, breathless from his climb, and as his arm eased its throbbing and his chest stopped its heaving he looked out across the land. Below him lay low, rolling humps of earth covered over with last year's grey-hued grasses, now dead and withered. Beyond that, dun-tinted plains stretched out to meet the horizon, North, East and Weest. Here and there a scrubby clutch of trees could be seen, black blotches on the winter landscapes. There was a stream like a pale ribbon in the distance, running doubtless to Anduin far away.

The time had come to choose his course. Eastward Aragorn sent only the most cursory of glances. There was nothing at all in those empty lands until one came at last to the borders of distant Rhûn. Then away to the north he cast his eyes. There the plain stretched off towards a fading horizon, upon which Aragorn half imagined he could see the first dark fringes of Mirkwood. That was impossible, he knew, for the forest lay yet many leagues from where he now stood.

Perhaps it was an irrational anxiety born of the lingering fever, or merely the unhappy construct of a weary spirit over-burdened with sights of darkness and dread, but it seemed he could feel the oppressive shadow of Dol Guldur bearing down upon the land. A cold shiver coursed up his spine. Four hundred miles lay stretched between this stony hill and Thranduil's halls: all the length of Rhovanion. Pursued from behind and hobbled by his conspicuous prisoner, Aragorn could scarcely hope to escape the notice of the servants of the Nazgûl. In some lonely place he would find himself caught between the huntsmen of Mordor and the sentries of Dol Guldur. What fate would then await him he dared not guess.

With a shudder he turned to the West. Thither lay the safer path: over Anduin and north in the shadow of the Hithaeglir, fording Limlight and Celebrant and Gladden until he came at last to the Old Ford. Then finally a desperate push eastward again, in the hope he could reach Thranduil before his enemies overtook him. Once he was across the river he had little to fear from the Ringwraiths, at least, for they would not risk its crossing to pursue a nameless vagrant and a craven escapee. Orcs would find a way if so driven, but that would take time. Provided that Aragorn could coax a faster pace out of his body and his prisoner once they reached less hostile terrain, he might stand a chance of reaching more familiar territory.

Despite its merits, the plan filled him with a sinking dismay. Safer that road might be, but it would double the distance he had to travel. Eight hundred miles made an onerous journey to cover under the best of circumstances. Weakened as he was, wounded, feverish, exhausted; clad in rags and without supplies, the thought of dragging an uncooperative captive over such a vast distance into winter weather was a task bordering on the impossible.

Aragorn had to fight the urge to sink to his knees, knowing how hard it would be to rise again. He had no choice. The shorter road was fraught with peril. Only if he could disappear into the woodlands and hills west of Anduin did he have any hope of reaching his destination. Looking down at Gollum, who was glaring at the dirt beneath his long, prehensile toes, Aragorn swallowed painfully as if by doing so he could beat back the mounting despair. There was nothing to be gained from dwelling on the enormity of the task at hand. If he was going to survive, he had to control himself. He had to focus only on today's struggles, and let tomorrow bring what it may. Therefore he did the only thing that he could do, in the circumstances.

Nudging Gollum so that he moved into a position conducive to forward movement, Aragorn began to walk.

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That day and the next, Aragorn moved at a marginally faster pace. He was too weary and ill to accurately gauge the distance he was covering, but he knew that he was still moving too slowly, for Gollum had no difficulty keeping up. At dusk on the second day he reached the banks of the west-flowing stream, and there he halted, easing his tired body down beside the water. Gollum, making eager, unpleasant noises through his nose, scrambled down the bank and plunged his face into the brook, sucking and slurping as he tried to drink in spite of the gag. Watching him numbly, Aragorn felt a tug of guilt before he reminded himself that Gollum had been given ample opportunity to cooperate.

While his prisoner was thus occupied, Aragorn drank a little and bathed his face. Then he unwrapped his arm and examined the bites. The wounds were still suppurating, but the inflammation was much reduced and the pus was not so purulent. Satisfied, he washed them and cleaned the strips of cloth, and then bandaged his hurts again.

The effort proved less exhausting than he had feared, which was a sign that his health was improving. Indeed, he could feel for the first time in many days the restive stirrings of hunger creeping through his viscera. Though he had a few strips of meat left in his pack, Aragorn cast about for signs of edible fauna among the scant vegetation that clung to the creek bed. There was nothing within arm's reach, and so he crept a few yards downstream, dragging a reluctant Gollum after him. There, in the mud by the water-side, he found the toppled stalks of a clump of bulrushes.

A ghost of a smile tugged at Aragorn's lips and he did not doubt that his joy showed in his eyes. The rushes were rotting in the river mud, and the brown seed heads that tasted so sweet in early summer lay dry and useless on the rocks, but as he dug hastily into the river bed his fingers closed upon the head of a root. Eagerly he unearthed it, and then sought for the next one. The soft, sodden earth gave way with little difficulty, and his little heap of treasure grew. He was aware of Gollum's perplexed gawking, but he heeded it not. He worked with more fervour than he would have thought himself capable of, and he had to make a conscious effort to stay his searching hand before he had denuded the patch entirely. He left half a dozen of the plants where they were, to grow and reseed the river bank against the need of some other unhappy wanderer, should any chance this way in later years.

With greedy eyes he surveyed the fruits of his labour. The spindly, fibrous tangles were choked with mud, and did not look especially appetizing to the untrained eye, but the sight of the amassed roots eased Aragorn's anxieties considerably. Bulrush roots contained a starchy pulp that could be gnawed from the heavy root fibres, or soaked out of broken pieces. It could even be made into a flour of sorts, though that was a labour-intensive process that was not worth the effort – especially when one had no fat for baking, nor safety enough to chance a fire. These roots would sustain him for a week or more, he thought triumphantly. Then he cast a sidelong glance at his prisoner and amended his estimate. It was enough to keep two fed for four days.

'Are you hungry enough to behave yourself?' he asked, trying to ignore the harsh timbre of his voice. Fever and disuse had worked their evil on his throat. Gollum did not seem to care: he merely scowled back, intractable as ever. Wearily, Aragorn repeated his offer of truce. 'If you promise not to bite, I will remove the gag.'

Gollum hesitated, and in the pale eyes the Ranger could see hunger and defiance at war within the creature's heart. Then Gollum looked at the heap of bulrush roots, and with a disdainful sniff turned his face away.

Aragorn sighed. He was beginning to suspect that Gollum knew how difficult this was for him to witness the self-inflicted suffering of the starveling wretch. 'So be it,' he said, with more apathy than he felt. 'It is your stomach that will suffer, not mine.'

With Gollum glowering at his back, he bent over the water to wash his harvest. He picked away the stringy hairs that were too new to afford any nourishment, and separated the slender, softer roots from the thick, woody cores. The former he wrapped in a scrap of cloth, tucking them carefully into his pack. Using a flat stone as a cutting surface, he split two lengths of root, and chopped them into small crescent-shaped pieces. Filling his mug with water, he let the pieces soak. He waited patiently for a while, and then restlessly, and at last when he could bear it no longer he raised the cup to his lips and drank the slurry that had formed in the water. It felt gritty in his mouth and the fluid was tasteless but for a faint bitter tang, but almost at once the snarling in his stomach was eased and his head felt less giddy. He filled the cup again and set it aside, so that whatever nourishment remained in the root fibres could be drawn out while he took his rest.

Tonight, rather than truss up his prisoner like a slaughtered pig, Aragorn bound only his hands. Gollum had made no attempt to interfere with his bindings in several nights, and the Ranger was beginning to hope that the taming process was at last progressing as it ought. It was impossible that Gollum should endure much longer without food, and if Aragorn showed a little trust now he might find it later repaid. With a word of encouragement he gently knotted the strip of wool about his captive's wrists, and with Gollum secured he stretched out on the ground, casting his eyes towards the ragged clouds above.

He did not sleep that night, but rested his mind after the fashion of the Elves, lying flat upon his back with his long legs bent. Now and then through the clouds he could catch sight of a star, and he drank in each glimmer of light as if it could nourish his lonely soul.

_lar_

The next day, Gollum refused to move.

Aragorn rose before the dawn, to wash his face and fill his bottles and drink his cold bulrush tisane. The tugging of the binding cord earned him several unpleasant looks from his prisoner, who was lying curled on his side, but Gollum seemed no more uncooperative than usual, even scrambling to his feet before Aragorn's boot found leverage to raise him. They started off well enough, following the creek-bed westward as the sun rose behind. It promised to be a bright day, and Aragorn's spirits were lifting considerably when, as the last hints of night vanished behind the horizon, Gollum flung himself upon the ground, cringing and weeping and covering his eyes with his wounded hands.

Aragorn halted immediately, kneeling swiftly and trying to divine the source of the creature's distress. He had done this before, in the mountains, and then Aragorn had assumed it to be a reaction to pursuing orcs. Looking behind him now, he saw no sign of any living thing as far as the eye could see.

Gollum was making horrible sounds behind the gag, and his body was arcing and contorting in the most improbable of ways. Fearful that the creature was going to do himself an injury, Aragorn gripped the bony shoulders. 'Gollum! Be still!' he said urgently. 'What is causing you such distress? Gollum! Listen to me!'

The whimpering and writhing only grew more intense. It was a dreadful sight. Aragorn had witnessed bodies wracked with torture, and the horrible death-throes of men felled by swift-bleeding wounds, and children seized by fits of convulsions, but none of those things quite compared to this. Gollum's agility and malicious strength gave his motions a surreal and terrifying quality.

There was no other recourse: Aragorn seized the knot at the base of Gollum's skull and wrestled it loose. Away came the gag and with fingers that were hopefully nimble enough to escape any snap of the bony jaw, Aragorn plucked the plug of wool from the creature's mouth. Golllum scarcely seemed to notice. As if pouring uninterrupted from some bottomless well within him, words tumbled from his pale lips, beginning in mid-sentence.

'... it does, my preciouss! Burns us, shows us up! Nassty, hateful manses drives us on, on, _gollum_! Must hide, my preciousss, must hide from Yellow Face! Oh, poor preciouss, poor preciouss, _gollum_!' Here he let loose one of his shrill shrieks, and the hairs on the back of Aragorn's neck stood on end.

'What burns you?' he asked, unable to mask his concern as Gollum continued to sob and thrash and claw at his head. Was the creature rapt in some memory of the torture he had endured while in the clutches of the Enemy? Though he knew it would undermine his attempts to be a stern and indomitable jailer, Aragorn could not keep from saying; 'I will help you if I can. Let me help you.'

Gollum, it seemed, could not hear him or would not heed him. He continued with his wretched moaning. Aragorn cast anxiously about. If there were any watchers in this land, his prisoner now made a most eye-catching sight. This place was too open by far. Yet a few yards away a clump of barberry bushes clung to the edge of the stream. Aragorn looked at Gollum, wondering whether he could pick up the creature with his left arm and carry him so far. He decided he might have managed it had Gollum proved likely to be still and allow himself to be borne, but twisting and flailing as he was, Aragorn could not hope to succeed. He took hold of the creature's shoulder and shook him insistently.

'Stop this!' he commanded. 'We must take cover before your antics draw the attention of every beast, bird and goblin within a hundred miles!'

At the words 'take cover', Gollum fell instantly silent. He twisted his neck to look at Aragorn, who pointed towards the bilberry thicket. So swiftly did the creature spring into a loping run that Aragorn scarcely had time to snatch up the rags lately stuffed into his mouth before he was obliged to spring after his prisoner, lest Gollum should strangle himself upon the rope.

When they reached the edge of the brook, Gollum dove amidst the bushes, seemingly untroubled by the grasping thorns. Near the edge of his lead he halted, squatting by a thick stalk and staring out at Aragorn with enormous, glinting eyes.

Nonplussed, the Ranger sat, keeping safely out of the way of the woody spines. Gollum's reaction perplexed him. After such a performance, his fresh silence was all the more astonishing. Had this whole incident been nothing but a ploy to induce his captor to remove the gag? But no, Gollum had been seized by true panic, and that could not lightly be laid aside.

'What distressed you so?' Aragorn asked, trying to keep his voice impassive but nonthreatening.

Gollum glared at him, looking for all the world as if the incident had never occurred.

'Not good enough,' said the Ranger, sternly this time. He fixed his eyes on Gollum's, foiling the captive's attempt to look away. 'What is a yellow face? A man in a mask? Some strange breed of orc?'

Gollum's lips moved as if they were entirely disconnected from the rest of his face. 'He knows, he does, preciouss,' he muttered. 'Hateful trickses. He knows it, pretends he doesn't, _gollum. _We know he knows it, precious. _Eye in a blue face, eye in a green face_. Knows it, he does, wicked manses.'

Realization came with quiet relief as Aragorn recognized yet another of the riddles from Bilbo's tale. 'Sun on the daisies,' he murmured. 'You fear the Sun. It burns; shows you up... after so long in darkness you dread the sunlight.'

Too much gentleness drifted into his tone; too much pity. Gollum closed his mouth with a snap, and stared at his captor with cold, calculating eyes. Cognizant of his lapse in judgement, Aragorn set his face into a stony mask.

'So be it,' he said. 'I cannot carry you and I will not drag you. We will rest here a while, until the Sun is past its zenith. The rest will do me more good than it will you, I think.'

He settled into a more comfortable position, one eye still fixed on Gollum while the other searched the bushes for any sign of fruit, however withered. There was nothing. Birds, perhaps, had long ago picked the bilberries clean – or perhaps these sorry shrubs had never borne fruit at all.

A thought occurred to him. He knew such a show of deference was unwise, but he was already compromised and the gag was already removed. Aragorn dug in his pack and drew out the remaining strips of meat. He held them on an upturned palm, turning again to look at Gollum.

'Are you hungry?' he asked.

Gollum did not answer, but he hopped nearer, eying the food greedily. Aragorn waited, like a child holding seed in the hope of coaxing a redwing to land on his hand. Quick as lightning, Gollum reached out and snatched the meat, then retreated to the end of his leash. Turning his back and casting a suspicious glower over his shoulder, he tore off a piece and began to chew. A shudder of revulsion coursed up his spine and he spat out the half-ground meat. Aragorn's jaw tightened. After such a long fast, if Gollum was going to waste this food—

But he plucked up the cast-off plug of dried flesh, and though he shuddered and whined he ate it. The rest was soon devoured, and then Gollum edged nearer to Aragorn, skirting around as he crawled towards the water's edge. Greedily he drank, muttering maledictions to himself. Then he returned to his hiding-place among the thorns, eyes still smouldering with hatred.

When he was certain that Gollum was not looking at him, Aragorn allowed himself the luxury of a tiny, triumphant smile. His prisoner, it seemed, was tamed at last.


	22. Down to the River

**Chapter XXII: Down to the River**

The stream followed much the same route that Aragorn had intended to take – though perhaps not quite so northerly. Most likely it drained into Nen Hithoel in the shadow of Tol Brandir, where the river was impassible to a man without a boat. Despite this, he followed it, and intended to do so until he neared the Vales of Anduin. He was so weary of the stern rationing of water that had been his lot since he had parted with Gandalf in distant Harondor. It was an inexpressible relief to be able to drink whenever he wished, and to bathe his wounded arm twice every day without paying a dear ransom of thirst. He had even made an effort to restore some semblance of cleanliness to his person and his dilapidated attire, though the results were hardly impressive.

Almost as welcome as the water was the plant life that clung so resolutely to the creek-bed. Dead though it was in the heart of winter, Aragorn still managed to scrounge edible taproots and the occasional tuber. These, particularly the latter, he hoarded with the zeal of a starving man, and each day his pack grew a little heavier. He ate enough only to keep himself firmly upon his feet, for the hungry northward leagues haunted him. Far better to suffer the pinchings of an undernourished belly now than to face utter famine in some snowy waste far from succour.

Glad though he was of the gleanings of the land, Aragorn kept a sharp lookout for signs of game. His attention to this matter was not entirely self-serving, for Gollum disdained the Ranger's diet of roots and resolutely refused to partake of it. Despite the creature's earlier hostility and his continued bitter silence, Aragorn as the jailer had a duty to feed his captive. If Gollum would not or could not gnaw the tasteless fibres that were sustaining the Man, then Aragorn had to make an effort to provide a reasonable alternative. Harsh policies were all very well while a prisoner was violent and openly defiant, but now that Gollum was beginning to show signs of cooperation he had to be met halfway, lest continued restraint discourage further good behaviour.

To that same end, Aragorn now travelled through the hours of darkness, finding shelter as the Sun began to climb and his companion began to quail. His primary concern was to avoid another performance like the one that had driven him to remove Gollum's gag. In truth, though, he was just as happy to rest through the day. Sunlight was helpful for foraging, and it helped him stave off sleep. Furthermore, the nights were growing colder, and it was easier to stay warm when one was on the move.

It was early in the morning on the eleventh day since Aragorn had found his quarry, when they came to a place where the stream tumbled over a swell of the land in a cascade some four feet high. The little waterfall was sufficient to form a pool at its base. Here the vegetation was as dense and varied as any Aragorn had seen in this land. Even the desolation of winter could not disguise the wild beauty of this peaceful place. There were thickets of raspberry and whortleberry – picked clean, of course, by unseen birds – and grasses of every description. Aragorn could see bald patches of earth where clover would flourish when spring came, and there were crocus stalks on the far side of the pool. Even trees grew here: a few scrawny willow saplings stretching their denuded branches towards the pale sky.

Beside one of these the Ranger settled himself, within easy reach of the water and close by a whortleberry bush beneath which Gollum could hide. The work of gathering food could wait awhile: though his fever was all but gone he was plagued by fatigue that his brief, unsettled attempts at sleep could not allay. The night's march had left him sore and weary, and he longed for rest.

With his back to the sapling, which despite its slender bole was deeply rooted in the sandy soil, he dug the bundle of bulrush fibres from his pack and carefully chose a few that were slender enough to chew. While Gollum cringed in the shadows, Aragorn ate, spitting out the woody fibres once the nourishing centres were extracted. It was not a genteel repast, but as he was in the company of a creature who nipped at his own toes, such considerations troubled Aragorn but little.

The sun was distant but bright, and the air grew warmer as she mounted ever higher. His meal concluded, Aragorn leaned against the tree and closed his eyes. Reluctant to sleep, which would entail bestirring himself to bind Gollum's hands, he wandered in a pleasant daydream while the sunlight filtered golden through his eyelids.

He thought of Imladris in high summer, when all the valley was in bloom. The apple orchard, frosted with fragrant white blossoms, was filled with the song of plump bees, hovering industriously amid the laden branches. Roses like great, intricate gems seemed to glow in the sulight. In the herb gardens, wholesome healing smells intermingled and the pansies smiled at the sky. By the water there was a cluster of bluebells, heavy heads hanging low above the crystalline rush of the Bruinen…

A tug at his wrist dragged Aragorn back to the present. Opening his eyes, he wished at once that he had never closed them. In contrast to his vivid imaginings, this place that had seemed so fair and peaceful was now grey and bleak. Suppressing that ungrateful thought, he sought out his prisoner, whose movement had dragged him from his reverie. Gollum had moved down to the water's edge, as far from Aragorn as he could contrive to get without throttling himself. He was not paddling his hands in the water as was his wont, but crouching instead by the pool's edge, staring intently at the rippling surface but touching it not.

Curious as to what might so entrance his captive, Aragorn remained motionless. Gollum scarcely seemed to breathe, so still was he. Then sudden as a striking adder his arm shot out, plunging beneath the water with scarcely a splash. Then in a great shower of spray he raised his arm. Clamped firmly in his spindly fingers was a fat, thrashing carp. Gollum hissed triumphantly, digging his ragged nails into the gills of the fish until dark blood oozed forth.

Aragorn chuckled appreciatively. 'Most impressive,' he said, and for the first time since Gollum's capture the civility came easily. 'I shall have to try for myself, and then I think we can risk a fire to roast them.'

Gollum's look of unguarded victory blackened at these words, and he glowered at Aragorn. He turned the still-twitching fish in his hands, holding it much as one would a fresh pasty. Then with a savage jolting of his head he sunk his teeth into the scaly underbelly and tore loose a hunk of iridescent flesh. He hardly seemed to chew it before his throat constricted in a swallowing motion and he dove forward for another mouthful. This time he punctured the carp's intestine and came away with a fragment of tattered fin clinging to his chin. The slurping sound he made as he sucked back his meal was accompanied by a pungent smell of offal.

Aragorn had a strong stomach, well schooled by years of unpleasant sights and scents, but this display was very nearly too much for him. He cast his eyes away and tried to close his ears to the noises of mastication as Gollum set into his meal with ravenous abandon.

Suddenly roasted fish no longer seemed quite so tempting.

_lar_

That evening Aragorn crossed the little stream, fording it at a shallow place where the bed was studded with broad, flat stones. Gollum came splashing after, muttering resentfully under his breath as he did so. Aragorn felt a tug of annoyance that was tempered by amusement. He had a habit of conversing with himself, particularly at times when he was alone with a sticky problem to address, but he could not compete with Gollum's soliloquies. The angry ramblings rarely made any sense, and were usually too low to hear. Occasionally Aragorn caught a wrathful oath or an especially sibilant adjective, but for the most part he tried to ignore his prisoner's nonsensical raving and tonight was no exception to that.

Despite his earlier determination to remain near the water, Aragorn was suddenly anxious to begin his northward progress. Anduin could not be far away, and if he did not want to make a broad detour around the lake, he had to change his path. It worried him that there was no sign yet of the expected pursuit. It scarcely seemed possible, given the delays that his injuries had caused, that servants of Sauron upon Gollum's trail would have failed to come near enough to be seen upon the horizon or heard in the whisperings of the earth. Therefore it seemed that either Gollum had an extraordinary head start upon his foes, or he was not being hunted by the Enemy at all.

Certainly it was possible that Gollum had never been captured by Sauron; or else that, having escaped, he was unworthy of pursuit. Yet the meticulous attention that had been paid to his hands told a different story. Obviously he had been given very careful and particular attention. If the torturers of Mordor had extracted from him every fragment of useful information – a prospect that filled Aragorn's heart with a horror he could ill afford – it was conceivable that they would think him useless. Yet useless or no, Aragorn had never heard tell of any captive set free out of pity. Perhaps Gollum's escape had gone unnoticed for a sufficient stretch of time to allow for the lack of any detectable trackers, but by Aragorn's reckoning such a lead would have had to be three days or more; it was unlikely that even the most negligent jailer should for so long fail to notice that his charge had absconded.

It was the illogical nature of the situation that most troubled Aragorn. He was accustomed to predicting the actions of the Enemy, and to interpreting the motives that drove Sauron's thralls. He had insight into the hearts and minds of others that few could rival, and he understood more of the machinations of his foes than any of his race yet living. This lack of pursuit was not consistent with what he knew of the servants of Mordor, and so he could not know what he should do to avoid needless danger.

Through the night the problem clawed at him, while Gollum whinged and muttered and contorted his spine. Dawn came at last and found them near a copse of trees – in rather poor shape. Gollum was favouring his left hand and whimpering wretchedly deep in his throat. Aragorn's riven right thigh was aching along the new scar, and his head was throbbing. His eyes stung and his thoughts were muddled: he had been too long without sleep.

He found a sheltered place where heather grew in more clement months, and there he halted. Gollum retreated at once to the end of his lead and started to fawn over his sore hand. Weary though he was, Aragorn forced out an offer of aid that was repaid with a venomous hiss and a black look. Too tired to press the issue, he stretched himself out on the spongy earth. His leaden eyes slipped closed almost of their own accord.

For a moment he fought the inexorable pull of slumber. He had a prisoner to secure, and they were both in need of water... but exhaustion won out over good sense and he resisted no further.

_lar_

Aragorn awoke abruptly, yanked out of the warm embrace of darkness into petrified wakefulness. Unsure what had roused him he did not move, but remained with his eyes closed as he listened intently. Near at hand – _very _near at hand – he could hear the low, wheezing exhalations of his prisoner. Furthermore he could smell him: Gollum's vile scent, now liberally tainted with the reek of raw carp.

His pulse quickened. For days Gollum had kept his distance as much as the rope would allow. What was he doing now, that he was so close? Cautiously Aragorn opened his eyes far enough that he could peer through his lashes. Gollum was practically on top of him, crouching by his side. His attention was focussed on the Ranger's pack where it lay by his hip. While Aragorn watched Gollum cautiously plucked up one side of the opening, lifting it with care. Then the other hand slipped inside and emerged with the little coil of copper wire between finger and thumb. Gollum tossed it disdainfully away and reached into the pack once again.

Aragorn sat up and his prisoner recoiled with a cry of startled dismay, landing hard on his tailbone with one foot in the air. With stern eyes the Ranger surveyed his captive's handiwork. Gollum had managed to empty the pack of most of its contents: roots and bulbs were scattered across the ground, and among them the rest of Aragorn's scant possessions. A quick glance into the bag revealed that only a few taproots and the rag full of grease remained within.

Gollum was glaring defiantly, as if daring him to retaliate. Aragorn levelled his gaze, concealing both his irritation and his amusement. 'What did you hope to accomplish?' he asked.

Gollum, of course, made no answer.

Aragorn pressed the back of his hand to his brow as if by doing so he could scrub away the lingering exhaustion. Evidently he had not slept long – and a skyward glance confirmed it. Yet now his heart was hammering against his ribs, and his limbs felt charged with a nervous energy, and he knew he would be unable to settle down again. This time the irritation could not be so easily driven back. He was weary and far from any respite, and the thought of the persistent struggle, pitting his will against that of his captive, left him bereft of the determination to be kind. It was all that he could do to grit his teeth against his anger and to proceed, silently, to collect his belongings and his poor cache of provisions.

As he tucked away the last of his gear, he at last felt able to speak with some semblance of restraint.

'You will soon learn that there is little to be gained from aggravating me,' Aragorn said, closing his pack and tying it with care. 'If you will neither rest nor allow me to do so, then we will move on. We have almost three hundred leagues to cover, and time cannot be squandered.'

And though Gollum moaned and wept and cast unintelligible curses to the sky, Aragorn got him to his feet and drove him onward, defying his own weariness as much as the reluctance of his prisoner.

_lar_

They walked through the afternoon and on into a starless night. They were drawing near to the river. Dawn brought mists as thick as curing smoke; mists that dulled the sense and muted even Gollum's whining. For that Aragorn was grateful, so grateful that damp clothes and dripping hair were forgiven. The shrill feral sounds were grating on his nerves, and he was half tempted to gag Gollum again just to induce silence. Though in the name of justice he restrained himself, it took a great deal of self-control to do so.

At length the sun climbed high enough to melt away the fog, and the Ranger began to look for a suitable place to camp. His exhaustion was mounting, and without rest he had little hope of crossing Anduin. At last he settled upon a hollow in the lee of a great standing stone. Whether it had been placed there by accident of nature or design of Man he did not know, but he was grateful for the cover that it offered.

He eased himself to the ground with his back against the stone, and when he had eaten and Gollum had refused his food, Aragorn took the woollen rags and bound his prisoner's wrists.

'I will not have you relieving me of my stores while I sleep,' he said. 'I suggest that you make good use of these hours. Tomorrow at this time I hope to cross the river. Then there will be little rest for either of us.'

So saying he drew up his knees and rested his arms upon them. With his face buried against his ragged sleeves he sought desperately for a few hours of peace.

_lar_

His slumber was uneasy, troubled by vague nightmares that eluded recall and made still more difficult by the permeating chill that was now settling over the land. He had made some progress northward, it seemed, for there was something of winter in the wind and he soon had to tuck his fingers into fists to keep them from growing cold. As the afternoon wore on, Aragorn gave up the effort of sleep and rose. He wished to pace about, but Gollum was curled up in a ball, having apparently decided to heed his captor's warning. Instead he stood, leaning against the boulder, and watched the shadows grow. When dusk was near enough, he roused his prisoner and set out in a westerly direction.

As he had reckoned, the land began to slope downward, away from the barren plains behind. Here the signs of life were plentiful, and had Aragorn been able to spare the time he did not doubt that he could find game here. But time was precious, and he was anxious to cross the river and to leave the lands of the Enemy and the threat of the Nazgûl far behind.

Down into the lowlands he marched, his way lit by the distant stars. Westward and always a little to the north he pressed, hoping that he had managed to circumvent the lake. If not, he would lose many days winding his way around her broad waters, until he came to Tol Brandir and the gates of the Argonath. Dearly though his heart wished to stand in their shadow once more, he could ill afford any delay.

At last, perhaps an hour before the dawn, he came to the brink of the river valley itself. Here the land fell sharply, stubborn ash trees clinging to the slopes with thick roots that protruded like spiders' legs from the rocky soil. Aragorn had no wish to tumble down to the water's edge, and so he made good use of the trees, gripping a trunk with his good hand as skirted down the incline, and then reaching for the next one. Gollum seemed to need little support, but on occasion he took hold of a root as he waited for his jailer to catch up to him.

After many minutes of careful navigation, Aragorn reached the floor of the valley. Here the earth was almost level, sloping gently away. Here, too, he could at last hear the rush of the river, the muted roar of Anduin as it swept towards the sea. Gollum heard it also, for he halted with his head cocked to the wind like a hunting spaniel, eyes gleaming with an unearthly light.

Aragorn did not allow a lengthy halt. As soon as he found his breath again, they were moving. The worry that he had not come far enough was now overwhelming, and he wished only to answer his fears, for good or ill. Through the trees – larger here, and doubtless a majestic sight if one had but leisure to look – he hastened. On flat ground his long legs and his determination imbued an advantage of speed, and Gollum now struggled to keep pace. The valley was not very broad here, and dawn had not yet come when the Ranger and his captive reached the water`s edge.

Gollum hastened at once to drink and to splash, muttering to himself and anointing his hands and feet in the water. Aragorn stood silent, straining his eyes into the darkness in an attempt to spy the opposite shore, that he might gauge the breadth of the river and the strength of the current, and so determine if he had reached his goal or no.

At length the far bank came into focus as the sun rose behind him. Practiced eyes measured the distance, and a low noise of relief escaped his lips. The river was narrow here: perhaps half a mile across. Below Nen Hithoel it broadened considerably, a mile or more from shore to shore, and was held to be impassable to any man without a boat until one reached the narrows in Ithilien, where the bridge of Osgiliath spanned Anduin. Aragorn was tempted to laugh aloud. He had come far enough.

But the reality of his plight seeped inexorably back as the chill of the morning crept into his motionless body. The day was cold and the river was flowing swiftly, glutted with the runoff of mountain streams. Aragorn crouched and dipped his fingers into the water. He withdrew them with haste. It would be a bitter swim, and though he knew that in his full vigour half a mile was little enough distance to cover, he was not in his full vigour. His right arm yet pained him, and its wounds still oozed fine trails of purulence. His leg had not recovered all of its strength. And he had a prisoner and baggage to bear with him.

The first echoes of despair clawed at his breast, but he closed his heart against them and tried to consider his options objectively. Every day spent upon this side of the river increased his chances of pursuit and capture. Every northward mile increased the likelihood that he would draw the attention of the denizens of Dol Guldur. He had to cross the river somehow, and Gollum had to come with him.

He looked out across the deceptively calm waters. Here and there he could see a white crest rising above Anduin's grey surface: the marks of a mighty current. Mists were beginning to gather as the sunlight struck the water. The rumbling roar of the river was at once a challenge and a threat, and as a creeping chill began to settle into his trunk and limbs, Aragorn wished that he might decline it and walk away from the contest of strengths – for in a trial pitting himself against the river, he was not certain of victory this day.

Yet even as he longed for some other path, he knew there was none. This was his path, whether or no. He had to cross the river. He had to find a way.

At his feet, Gollum was singing some scrap of half-forgotten doggerel.


	23. Over, Under and Through

_Author's Note: "Well, I'm back." – Sam Gamgee, "The Grey Havens", __The Return of the King__; J.R.R. Tolkien. (My sincerest apologies for the prolonged absence! Happy reading...)_

**Chapter XXIII: Over, Under and Through **

Aragorn stood long by the water's edge, studying the coursing surface of the river as he tried to divine the movement of the currents and eddies beneath. It was an impossible task, he decided. There was no hope of a well-planned crossing: Anduin's swollen breadth would surely prove unpredictable.

Therefore his one hope was to properly arrange himself and his burdens. He cast an appraising eye upon his prisoner, still warbling tunelessly under his breath. Aragorn saw as if for the first time the ropey sinews standing out beneath the discoloured skin that stretched like a shroud over the skeletal limbs. Beneath the hollow ribs he could almost see the carmine lungs stretching and shrinking with each shallow breath. A twinge of pity plucked at his innards: as ill-suited for this swim as he was himself, Gollum's condition was worse. He could not be expected to swim across, and therefore he must be borne.

There were a number of ways to tow a body through water. A hand beneath the chin, supporting the head above the surface while one drew the other person along, was the least strenuous, but it was easy to lose one's grip in a rapid current. Aragorn did not suppose that Gollum would have much chance of escaping him mid-stream, but the thought of his prize swept away and drowned was intolerable. A cooperative passenger could be carried on a swimmer's back, holding fast to waist or shoulders, and when the swimmer was weak this was the preferred method, since it left both arms free for propulsion and allowed for a reasonably efficient front stroke. Gollum, of course, could not be trusted to be cooperative. He might attempt to strangle his bearer in the midst of the river, or to blind him with his spindly fingers. Or he might merely panic and let go.

The pale eyes were glittering maliciously at him, as if the captive sensed the Ranger's thoughts. Aragorn stared coldly back, carefully concealing the doubt and trepidation that had doubtless been writ across his brow. With a whimper, Gollum cast his eyes away and resumed his petulant splashing.

There was also the question of baggage, Aragorn thought, turning his own face before the prisoner could look back to it. Scant though his possessions were, they would prove a hindrance in the frigid currents. In friendlier lands or fairer weather, he might have considered abandoning a portion of his luggage, but he was already reduced to carrying the barest essentials of survival, and even what he had might prove inadequate in the end. Stores and clothing, boots and scant sundries, all had to come with him.

The magnitude of the problem was beginning to make Aragorn's head ache. He eased himself down onto the river bank, bracing himself with his left leg and stretching his right towards the water so that the scar on his thigh twanged irately. Crooking his elbow around his raised knee, he rested his head upon his arm. In this perfect aspect of defeat he sat, leaden eyes closed.

Perhaps his mind was trying to light upon some distraction from the present conundrum, and latched onto the first noise to reach his ears, or perhaps Gollum raised his voice, but suddenly the muttered syllables of the eerie song penetrated Aragorn's sphere of awareness. He listened, entranced, as his prisoner sang:

_Splash, splish, make a wish.  
__Fish and frog, branch and log,  
__Eel and snail, try and fail,  
__Water going, river flowing,  
__Down and down until we drown:  
__Handses clasping, lipses gasping,  
__Fingers cold, no more to hold,  
__Eyes unseeing, heartbeats fleeing,  
__Long legs sinking, river drinking,  
__Crying, sighing, choking, dying…  
__Splash, splish, make a wish._

A small, cynical laugh reached the Ranger's lips and he raised his head. _Long legs sinking_, was it? Gollum wouldn't be rid of him that easily. There was something to be said, however, for _branch and log_.

'You have my thanks, O sullen one,' he said, cocking his chin and smiling rather superciliously; 'for you have neatly solved my problem.'

Gollum gaped at him, taken aback by this apparent reversal of his captor's mood. Then his mouth snapped closed over his isolated teeth and he glowered wrathfully, drawing his legs up to his chest and curling his spindly arms around them.

Aragorn stood, and without consideration for Gollum's stubborn stance, began to walk upstream, examining the flotsam cast up in the mud of the riverbed. With a strangled noise, Gollum came scrambling after – having learned at last, it seemed, that the Ranger was more stubborn than he. Sharp eyes scoured the detritus washed from the wild lands to the north: tangled weeds and splintered twigs, coarse stones destined to be worn smooth long before they reached the Sea, a denuded knucklebone that had once belonged to a sheep or a goat, and a goodly assortment of driftwood.

Here, where the river flowed swift and narrow, few larger pieces found the shore. Most rode Anduin over Rauros, dispersing in the lake and washing up upon its dark beaches. But soon enough he found what he sought, all but buried in the mire. With a little effort and a just measure of pain, he wrestled it from the sucking river mud and held it up, the better to examine his prize. It was a piece of pine, doubtless splintered from some venerable old tree far in the north by wind or lightning or a woodsman's axe. A little more than a yard in length and almost two handspans wide, it was as thick as a framing board. Waterlogged and heavy, it would nonetheless float even under the weight of a child – or a strange hobbit-like creature.

'A raft,' Aragorn said in answer to Gollum's perplexed stare. The look of bafflement became one of scepticism, and the Ranger curled his lip. 'You'll see,' he promised, grim but half-teasing.

He plunged the width of wood into the water, brushing it clean with his good hand. It bobbed and bucked, tempted to ride with the current. It was as buoyant as he could have hoped, and Aragorn felt some of his anxiety lifting. Beaching the split log, he set about divesting himself. There was little hope of his clothing remaining dry in the crossing, but at least it would not be weighing down his limbs with its sodden mass. He lifted his cloak carefully over his head, mindful of the makeshift copper clasp. Laying it out on the dead grass, he set his belt upon it.

Removing his boots was no easy task. He sat down to wrestle with the obdurate leather, but having been worn continuously for weeks, repeated wetted and then allowed to dry, it clung to his feet like an outer skin. Gollum watched, vindictive glee in his eyes, as Aragorn struggled. Using a heavy stone for leverage behind his heel, he pushed with his left foot at the side of his right boot. At the same time he struggled to pull his right leg free. With a crackling of his ankle-joint his foot slipped loose, and he fell backward, landing uncomfortably on his elbow. A fiery numbness shot into last two fingers his fingers and he grated his teeth against the indignity of the prickling sensation. His discomfiture did not last long, fortunately, and he was able to pry off the other boot with less difficulty.

He peeled off his foul-smelling hose – a duck in the river would do them no harm, at least – and inspected his feet for the first time in many days. The nail of his right great toe was half gone, and he remembered that he had noticed it blackened in the clearing in Harondor. It seemed that long ages of the world had passed since that autumn afternoon.

There were three blisters, all healing, on his left foot, but close inspection of the offending boot revealed no probable cause. Despite a few bruised toes and the habitual calluses his feet were largely unscathed. He spared a moment of gratitude for this small kindness.

He could not remove his cote while still tethered to Gollum; at least not without dragging the prisoner through his left sleeve. He worked the knot loose, and shifted the rope from one hand to the other and back. After a minute more, he stood clad only in the bandages that wrapped his forearm, and the tattered remains of his shirt. It was now a sleeveless smock, its ravaged hem hanging in straggles about his knees. Coarse though it was it was light, and he decided to retain that last modicum of modesty.

Still gripping the end of Gollum's halter, Aragorn knelt. Reaching into his pack, he found the little bundle of grease that he had carried for so many miles. Then he took the pack, his boots and his garments, and rolled them tightly in the heavy, fulled wool. Abbreviated and tattered though it was, the cloak provided several layers of protection. With a little good fortune, his clothing would not be soaked quite through when he reached the thither bank. He tucked in the ends of his bundle with care. Then with the first finger of his right hand he scooped up a blob of grease. Carefully, he pushed it into his ear canal, sealing out water and locking in heat. He did the same with his other ear, and as he did so he tried to steel himself for the next ordeal.

It was time to secure his prisoner.

_lar_

In the annals of Minas Tirith, the lore-masters of the White City exercised a certain degree of circumspection when it came to the indiscretions of their betters. When a princess of Dol Amroth ran away to be married without her lord's consent, or a younger son of the Steward begat a child with his mother's chambermaid, or a member of the Council was dismissed in suspect circumstances, a veil of tact was drawn discretely over the humiliating details. No record remained of the particulars of these unfortunate cases: one could only speculate what had befallen the unfortunate lady when her father discovered her mesalliance, and how she had come to be gifted with a minor manor holding on Tolfalas; or what machinations had been necessary to ensure an advantageous marriage for the Steward's illegitimate grandson; or what further penalties the disgraced counselor had suffered. Such diplomatic omissions were a frustration to the historian, but doubtless they had been a consolation to the unfortunate people involved. Some facets of life were simply too unpleasant and demeaning to be recorded for posterity.

If the tale of this tiresome journey were ever told, Aragorn reflected sardonically, he hoped the scribe would be prudent enough to exclude, neatly and artfully, any account of how Gollum came to be bound to the length of driftwood. In the end, at least, it was accomplished: the prisoner and his captor's baggage lashed firmly to the log with the length of orc-rope. Gollum lay upon his back with Aragorn's clothing beneath him, scowling but silent at last. Neither party had sustained any serious hurt in the process, save perhaps each to his pride. And that, the victor decided, was all that he had a right to ask.

He had left a little rope free of the bands trussing together his burdens, and Aragorn now knotted it about his left wrist as firmly as his right hand could manage. He would have preferred to tow with his weaker hand, but travelling westward his left was downstream. He plunged his bare forearm into the water, soaking the rope before testing the knot. It did not yield under his wrenching; he prayed that it would withstand the brute force of the river. He knew from experience that he would not be able to rely upon his fingers to grasp the rope properly.

Bent double, he nudged the little raft into the water. There was a terrible moment when he feared that it would sink, but it bobbed and stabilized, the water lapping gently against the pad of cloth beneath the prisoner's body.

'Now for good fortune and a fair wind,' Aragorn muttered, raising his eyes towards the far bank and trying to quell the doubts that were assailing him. Then he glared sternly at Gollum and said; 'If we drown, we drown. But if you are wise you will not attempt to scuttle me mid-stream. Be still and be silent.'

He extended his right foot into the water, gritting his teeth against its icy bite. The first steps were difficult, as the burning band of cold rose higher upon his legs. Even here at its very border Anduin dragged upon his limbs. Further he waded, drawing deep and deliberate breaths as he attempted to acclimatize himself. When Gollum was floating level with his hip, Aragorn tucked his hand under the loop of cord that crossed his belly. He closed his fist around it. Then, turning forty degrees downstream, he bent his knees. In one concerted motion that demanded all of his resolve, he plunged his trunk and head into the water and drove forward with his right arm extended above his head.

Despite his effort to prepare himself, the air was driven from his lungs. His eyes burned, blinded by the frigid waters, and for a moment it seemed that he would drown. But instinct overcame panic, and he rolled onto his side, flexing his right leg and drawing up his left. He brought them together like the blades of a pair of shears, and forward he shot, sucking in a painful measure of air and dragging his burden beside him.

The current was at his back, driving him downstream as his powerful side-stroke carried him westward. He bent his legs again, as if genuflecting before some great lord, but this time he drew in his right arm. As he kicked again he extended his elbow like a rudder, guiding him in his southeasterly course. He tightened his grip upon Gollum's bonds, hauling the makeshift raft with him.

Five times he kicked, then six, then seven. Each time breathing became more difficult, and his toes began to prickle with the cold. Setting his teeth and inhaling resolutely through them, Aragorn forced an eighth kick. A ninth. His riven thigh was aching. A tenth. The currents were dragging on his limbs. He was now past the depth at which he could stand with his head above the water: Anduin flowed in a deep and cavernous bed.

He gained another twenty yards before a spasm of torment shot through his wounded right arm. The resultant gasp of anguish drew in a lungful of water, and Aragorn jerked into a vertical posture, feet flailing as he fought to keep his head above the surface. In the moment of panic he almost forgot the board floating beside him, but then he hauled it nearer, bracing his shoulder against it and coughing furiously. He clutched his forearm to his breast, the sodden bandages doing little to ease his discomfort. Presently he regained some semblance of control and his breathing leveled again.

But he was loose in the current now, and it was dragging him southward, parallel to the bank. Whipping his legs in circles like two complimentary cogwheels, he forced his shoulders out of the water and blinked through the streams flowing from his brow, trying to orient himself. He was not fifty yards from the east bank, with the whole broad expanse of Anduin still severing him from safety. A cursory glance told him that Gollum, though incandescent with silent rage, was still unscathed and indeed, largely dry. An ironic snort expended more energy than he could at this moment spare, but it was exceedingly satisfying nonetheless.

Aragorn tried to calm himself, to forget the cold and the myriad reasons that he should fail. Failure was not now, nor had it ever been, a viable alternative to the struggles of survival. Slowly he began to relax, easing back onto his side. He extended his right arm again, resting his cheekbone upon his shoulder as he let his legs float upward once more. When he was lying on his side, he resumed his kicking, but this time he left his arm unmoving. It was steering him forward and holding his course, but no longer was it bearing the burden of motion.

His progress was slower now, but less frenzied. He closed his eyes, trying to relish the cathartic rushing of the water over his limbs and against his spine and around the outstretched fingers of his guiding hand. He had always enjoyed swimming. It had been a delight in the summers of his boyhood, and in his wanderings he had never regretted the necessity when it arose. The unified, almost harmonious motion of long limbs and lean muscle, the triumphant surges of strength that worked at once with and against the water, the sweet, cleansing feeling as his head broke the surface and his lungs drew in a fortifying measure of cold, clean air – all this he enjoyed.

He focused now on the slipstream of fluid running from his fingertips around his arm, over his shoulder and down the length of his body. The strong lateral motions of his legs alternated with long seconds of gliding as he rode the momentum of his efforts. Aragorn opened his eyes again, trying to weigh his progress. He was now about two hundred ells removed from the eastern bank. Twice that distance lay between him and the far shore, but his path was not perpendicular. The downstream route was longer, but this way he had to waste less energy fighting the current.

The river flowed more swiftly now, as he drew on towards its middle. A crest of water broke against Aragorn's back, and Gollum yelped indignantly as he was splashed with the icy spray. The Ranger expected a string of creative curses, but apparently the creature appreciated the gravity of the situation, for he made no sound. Drawing in a deep breath and a mouthful of icy water, Aragorn spared the strength to say, with as much confidence as he could muster; 'Hold fast. The worst is behind us.'

Anduin waited five strokes before it proved him wrong.

Aragorn's right leg was weakening, and at the nadir of his kick it was no longer parallel to the surface. Instead it drifted downward, and though he tried to correct this deficiency in his technique the newly-healed muscles were hesitant to obey him. On the fifth kick, his leg sagged further than before.

There was a sharp tug upon his ankle, as if a fist of ice had closed upon it and yanked, hauling him at once downstream and towards the riverbed. Startled, he foundered. His cry of dismay was muted by an influx of water as he sank below the surface, his right hand flailing helplessly in the air. The deep-water current dragged harder, and for a moment he feared that he would be swept away.

Then his left shoulder jerked, resisting. His wrist stung, and pain shot down towards his body as the wet rope chafed the palm of his hand. The pain roused him, and he remembered Gollum and the raft.

His right hand flew, clutching at something chilled and slippery – but firm. Aragorn kicked violently downward, driving his feet into the subversive eddy and propelling himself up and out of its insidious grip. His head broke the surface and he scrabbled against the log, choking and sputtering, his lungs burning in his breast.

Gollum, doubtless panicked by this sudden calamity, began to shriek and to struggle, rocking against his bonds. Aragorn wanted to shout out a command for stillness, but as he was struggling to breathe speech eluded him. Instead he tried to right himself so that he could ease his grip upon what he now realized was the prisoner's forearm. But he moved too slowly and Gollum once more proved stronger than he looked. Wrenching himself to the right, away from Aragorn, he succeeded in upending the raft. Aragorn's right hand lost its hold and his left arm was extended violently as the length of driftwood capsized.

Horror froze the Ranger as his captive vanished below the rushing waters. Hours seemed to pass as he stared in mute dismay at the overturned board, though in truth his heart beat once, then twice. Before the third staccato knell rang against his ribs, he gripped the rope with his left hand and the board with his right and rolled it towards him. Gollum, spitting and apoplectic with rage, emerged from the water like a sea-serpent.

'Be still!' Aragorn cried, as he should have done before. 'Be still, or you shall drown!'

'Curse us and splash us! Drownses us, precious! _Drownses us_!' Gollum shrieked.

Unable to ease back onto his side and unwilling to linger longer in the chaos of the river's heart, Aragorn shoved the board ahead of him. Gollum howled as again the frigid waters broke against him, but the Ranger closed his ears to the creature's indignant noises. Now on his belly, he gripped the raft with both hands and pushed it before him, kicking with all the strength in his legs.

He moved swiftly, bobbing his head up to inhale, and down to eject a cloud of roiling bubbles. His toes were searing with a fiery agony now, and his fingers were numb. He could feel them growing thick and clumsy, and he drove his right hand between Gollum and the bundle of clothing. Wedged fast, it held. His left hand was safely tucked under the rope, and he pushed onward.

In Rivendell in winter, swimming in the Bruinen was strictly prohibited. The water that rushed down from the mountains was too cold to be borne by elf or by man-child. The ponds froze solid, and the river-bank was rimmed with ice. Once – only once – Aragorn had disobeyed, flaunting the ban on swimming. Weary of winter activities, he had shucked off his layers and waded out into the deep water. Thirteen and defiant, he had refused to admit to himself that he was growing too cold. When at last he had found the good sense to remove himself from the water he had been half-stupid with the chill of it. Somehow numb feet had found their way back to the house, where swift rewarming and a long scolding had awaited him. When the reprimand was over, he remembered lying in bed, a hot stone at his feet and blankets piled to the tip of his nose, while his mother sang. Warmth and peace and a gentle hand upon his brow…

Aragorn gasped, sucking in yet another lungful of Anduin. His thoughts were growing muddled. The pain in his limbs was gone, but in its place it had left only leaden uselessness. The muscles of his thighs still remembered how to kick, but below the knees his legs were without sensation. His hands could not grasp. Even the burning anguish in his wounded arm was gone.

He tried to blink through the frost forming on his eyelids, to clear his vision that he might measure the distance yet to travel. He could not. He was no longer even certain whether he was moving westward, or east, or merely floating downstream to the south. He would float for hours, unable to move, unable to think, unable at last to breathe. When the cold took him and he knew no more, Anduin would bear him over Rauros Falls and sweep his moldering bones down into the Sea.

Gollum was silent now, or else Aragorn's ears were choked with ice and he could no longer hear him. Strength was forgotten. The desire to survive was no more. His head slipped beneath the surface, and it was only the last feeble, habitual jerks of what had once been his legs that raised it up again. He drew in a tortured breath. It sent daggers of anguish through his ribs, and that saddened him. It was such a pity that his last breath should bring with it no pleasure, no peace. In sleep alone there was peace. He had tried. In the end he had failed, but at least… at least he had tried.

Serenely, quietly, he sank into the river. Only his left hand, stubbornly bound to the driftwood litter, remained in the cold morning air. Sleep and peace, he thought…

Then his sinking knee scraped against the slick stones of Anduin's bed.


	24. The Thaw

**Chapter XXIV: The Thaw**

First there came a moment of indolent surprise: a mild and indifferent astonishment born of the realization that he still had some vestige of sensation below the knees. Next, a thrill of sour despair as he realized he must have sunk to the very depths of Anduin's bed, never to rise again. But third came the tremulous voice of logic, reminding him that his left arm was pulled taught, its wrist and hand kept above the surface by the raft to which it was tethered. So at last his cold-muddled mind reached the roundabout conclusion that he was kneeling in water shallow enough for him to stand.

Actually standing was another matter entirely. Aragorn tried to rise, but the foot on the end of his leg would not obey him. The ankle buckled and his knee crashed against the rocky river-bed. His lungs seared with the pressure of the spent air within them and his eyes were blinded by the murky water-world that engulfed him.

A thin stream of bubbles burst through the resolute dam of his lips and he tried again to rise. Again he failed, but in his scrambling he gained a foot of riverbed. Abandoning the futile attempts to rise, he propelled himself forward; pushing with leaden legs until his dangling right fist barked against the stones. He tried to enlist its aid, but a weak floundering of his shoulder was all that he could manage. Another painful dragging of his legs, however, brought the raft down so that it barked against his skull. Anxious lest he should scuttle his helpless passenger, Aragorn kicked instinctively for the surface. The motion lifted him – head and shoulders, dazed and disoriented — into the biting air.

He drew in a roaring breath that tore at his breast like the claws of some unearthly beast, and his legs struggled to bear him up. Again they failed him, collapsing beneath the useless weight of his body, and he pitched forward into the water. Rivulets of impenetrable cold shot into his nostrils and the air he had so desperately drunk was tainted with Anduin's chill affusions.

Aragorn reared up out of the water again, his legs struggling for purchase while his flaccid arms hung heavy from his shoulders, the right flailing like a warp-weight and the left dragging behind him, towing along its burden with the patience of an aged ox. Coughing and sputtering, Anduin herself flowing from his lips and nose and hair, he dragged himself through the last yards of water. Tumbling at last in the shallows, he fell in the mud, unable to stagger further upon his frozen legs. He lay there for a minute or two, choking quietly upon the water that forced itself from his tortured lungs.

It was the hissing maledictions of his prisoner that roused Aragorn at last to drag himself, writhing like a snake in the muck, away from the water. The log, which had been floating benignly at his side, stuck in the mud and forced him to roll onto his back that he might haul more fruitfully upon his deadened arm. In the end, Gollum was ashore and Aragorn's legs were no longer in Anduin's frigid courses. He fell back, caring nothing for the sucking mud that squelched around his ears. Free of the river's grasp, he might sleep at last…

Sleep did not come. Instead, swift as the currents he had vanquished, fingers of fiery cold curled about his limbs. The air was intolerably raw against his wet skin, and the sodden linen that clung to his ribs seemed to leech the very marrow from his bones. A violent paroxysm tore down his spine, sending tendrils of anguish into extremities that had heretofore been so mercifully numb. He lay there tormented and shivering, unable to find the strength within him to rise and do what he must to survive. His teeth were rattling in his head and his shoulders twitched and quivered uncontrollably.

When the shaking abated his first thought was one of gratitude. But reason still lingered in his frost-addled skull, and he knew that he would not live long if he did not warm himself at once. The day was not especially cold and above the riverbank the ground was dry and free of snow, but sodden as he was he would freeze here if he was unable to bestir himself from Anduin's mud.

His objective then – but to rise seemed impossible. All that he could do was lie where he was, conjuring up manifold reasons why he could not move.

The thought that he was reduced at last to a waterlogged naysayer brought a ghost of amusement to Aragorn's chilled and leaden eyes. He let out a heavy huff of air that vanished almost as it left his lips. Reassured he braced himself and, with an effort surely equal to any he had yet mustered in this sorry quest, he rolled onto his side.

From that position it was a small thing to get his knees beneath him, though his ankles were ablaze with choleric blood and his numb feet felt bloated and alien under his weight. He planted the heels of his hands in the mud and prepared to dry himself to higher – and drier – ground. At that moment he realized with all the petulance of a vexed child that he was still tethered to the driftwood raft bearing his prisoner and his scanty gear.

Gollum was glaring at him with pale, implacable eyes, and for once Aragorn could not fault him for his resentment. The wretch was every bit as damp and chilled as he, if perhaps less exhausted, and bound as he was he could neither move nor warm himself. Easing back upon his tingling heels, Aragorn began to fumble with the knots.

'Your pardon,' he said, his words rasping hoarsely against the residue of water in his throat. 'I would have provided more elegant passage had I possessed the means. Still, we are both alive and largely unscathed, and that is better than I had hoped.'

Gollum snorted and twitched his nose unpleasantly, but the Ranger half fancied his expression softened a little – doubtless mollified by the apology. Nonetheless the effort of speaking put an ache in his chest, and so he fell silent as he struggled with the wet rope.

He had tied his knots well, and they gave almost easily under his manipulation. The moment the last of them fell away, Gollum sprung onto his heels and scurried away, scrambling up the bank. Seized with the terrible realization that he had allowed his quarry to escape, Aragorn tried to bolt to his feet, but his legs would not bear him up and his frozen toes slid in the mud. He pitched forward and the cord that was bound still to his wrist thrashed against his side. He was about to make a second wretched attempt when there came a low unpleasant snigger from the bank above. Raising his eyes to peer through the curtain of drenched and matted hair, Aragorn saw Gollum sitting with his back to a tree. His knees were drawn up near his chest, and his long, scarred hands were hidden in the pits of his arms. Too cold for flight perhaps, or else unsettled and afraid on this alien shore, he had chosen not to run.

Unwilling to question small blessings and too shrewd to tempt them, Aragorn tucked his drenched cloak-bundle into the crook of his arm and crawled up after his captive. Gollum did not balk or make any attempt to bolt as his captor drew near, and with remarkable and most unexpected patience he allowed Aragorn to replace the tether about his neck. Startled and grateful for this sudden cooperative cast, the Ranger took care to leave the bridle somewhat looser than before.

With Gollum secured, Aragorn turned his attentions to his own person again. His shirt, though badly soiled with mud, was already beginning to dry. A chill ran up his spine, and Aragorn tucked his limbs to his body and rocked a little, 'thinking warm thoughts', as Bilbo would have said.

The thought of his old friend and of what the dear hobbit would say if he could see the proud Dúnadan now cheered Aragorn considerably. If he ever reached the end of this perilous road they would doubtless laugh together at the account of captor and captive, two naked wretches shivering together beneath an uncomplaining ash tree. With the trial by water behind him and all of Anduin's frigid breadth between him and both pursuit from the south and the threat of Dol Guldur, Aragorn felt a weight lifting from his heart. Neither the promise of a cold and miserable day nor the imminent dangers of his winding road could serve to discourage him at this moment. Now, with his wits returning and his accomplishment to warm him, he felt able to press on.

_lar_

Aragorn moved slowly through the underbrush that clung close to Anduin's bank. His legs were sore and unsteady, their lean muscled length overtaxed by the desperate swim. More pertinent to his guarded pace was the need to tread with the greatest of care; for he went now unshod. The weight of his bundle of clothes told him it was most likely soaked through – an assumption given still greater validity by the incessant dripping of river water from the bottom of the roll. Wet boots were difficult to don; wet hose dangerous. It was far better to pick his way slowly forward until he reached a safe place to rest.

Gollum followed meekly, and again Aragorn marvelled at his prisoner's quiescence. Even the usual cries of 'yellow face' and 'burns us, preciouss!' were silent today. Anduin, it seemed, had the power to wash away defiance.

After about an hour, when the Ranger was beginning to wonder how much longer his weary limbs would obey him, they came upon a clearing. The trees formed an almost perfect ring carpeted with fallen leaves and the soft detritus of years past. The sun, now climbing to its zenith, cast an orb of yellow light upon the glade. It was as if the wilds had conjured up a bower built precisely to Aragorn's specifications. Thankful but worn down by the exertions of the day, Aragorn sank to his knees and bowed his head while Gollum sulked at the end of his rope, well away from the patch of sunlight.

There the wanderer unknotted his cloak, examining and spreading out the contents. As he had expected everything was wet. Hose and boots were soaking, his pack was flooded, and even the inmost folds of his cote were damp. For the first time Aragorn was glad that he carried no bread: his store of roots and tubers could not be spoilt by a little ducking. He dried his knife upon the grass, and lay out his cloak and belt and footwear. He could not hazard a fire so near the river, so instead he drew his tunic up over his legs with the less sodden panels against his skin. The wool offered a little warmth despite its wetness, and its weight was strangely comforting. Aragorn hunched low, huddling against his knees with his arms crossed over his chest. Forcing his strained muscles to loosen, he gave himself over to the quivering convulsions that he had been fighting since he washed ashore.

The indignity of sitting there helpless, shaking with cold, was a paltry price for the relief that shivering brought. Now that his shirt was almost dry and he was able to feel the winter sun upon his bare arms and his wet hair, Aragorn was beginning to grow warm at last. He let his head fall so that his brow rested upon his knees, and he huffed softly into the wool of his cote. His lips were trembling and it was only his careful effort to keep his jaw loose that kept his teeth from chattering, but he could feel the blood returning to his fingers and toes, and there was an unpleasant crawling feeling as the grease began to melt and to run out of his ears.

At last the paroxysms ceased, and Aragorn uncoiled himself. He stretched out his legs, rolling his ankles to loosen them. His left hand he planted on the ground, propping himself up as he leaned back a little. No longer frozen, the bites on his right arm were beginning to ache – but he welcomed this now-familiar discomfort on the grounds that he had come very near to never again feeling any sort of pain at all. The distant and dispassionate sun now felt quite pleasant upon his upturned face, and nearby Gollum was rooting in the mulch, apparently content to stay well in the shade and so well away from the Ranger.

Quite certain now that he was no longer in danger of slipping into deathly slumber, Aragorn eased himself onto his back. He drew his tunic a little higher upon his body and curled upon his side. He did not mean to fall asleep, but when it came he welcomed it.

_lar_

He awoke, stiff and chilled, to a smarting impact upon his right cheek. Warily he waited. Again something stung him, this time at his shoulder. He opened his eyes just in time to see Gollum, who was squatting at the end of his tether, flick another twig at him.

Aragorn rolled forward a little and sat up, his back creaking and his hams aching. His legs still held the memory of their swim, and he kneaded his right thigh with his good hand.

Twilight lay upon the land, and casting his eyes towards the circle of sky above Aragorn could see the first stars glittering in their nightly field. The despair he had felt during the last minutes of his frantic crossing had now wholly dispersed: how long it had been since last he had looked upon a clear sky, unsullied by the gloom that spread from Mordor like a cloud of ink in a dish of clear water.

Evidently Gollum was tired of watching his captor's reverie, for he threw another bit of wood, larger than the others. It nipped at Aragorn's left elbow, and the Ranger turned narrowing eyes on the prisoner.

'You are insolent, but you are right,' he said grudgingly. 'We have rested long enough. The miles are many that lie upon our northward road, but first I would like to put some distance between us and the river.'

Gollum did not appear interested in arguing.

As quickly as he could with his limbs stiff and his left hand bound, Aragorn dressed. His tunic was dry now, and warm from close contact with his body. Though also dry, his hose were cold and his boots stiff. His cloak was still quite wet, so instead of wearing it he slung it over his pack. With his belt once more girded and his knife at his side, he twitched his wrist to encourage Gollum to move, and off they went.

He cut a course now as due west as he could manage. There was little hope of concealing his trail from a skilled huntsman, though he did not doubt that his careful ways would be concealed from the casual observer. Their best chance, if pursuit found their landing, was to get as far from Anduin as they could, in as little time as possible.

Before the night was full about them, the river valley fell away and Aragorn found himself upon a broad, grassy plain. There was little cover here, but also little obstruction. He fell into a comfortable stride, outpacing Gollum only enough that the creature had to scamper to keep up. A slow wind was blowing from the south, and far away a tawny owl cried out as it fell upon some unfortunate prey. The sound made the Ranger`s mouth water. He walked now in living lands, and thought tonight he moved with all speed perhaps tomorrow he could hunt. It had been many days since he had last tasted flesh, and uncounted weeks since he had seen any fresh game.

Gollum, apparently, had similar yearnings. At the call of the owl he paused, one ear cocked to the wind. Then he crumpled forward, shaking his head and muttering woefully to himself as he followed his captor.


	25. A Man in the Hay

_Note: A funny thing happened on the way to Chapter 25… No, seriously. This was supposed to be posted weeks ago. I let life take over again. Oops. Ah, well. Better late than never, right? Right? _

**Chapter XXV: A Man in the Hay**

Eastemnet was a quiet land. Mile upon mile the improbable companions traveled that night, and no sign did they see of man or beast. When dawn's first pale blush touched the blackness behind, Aragorn began to cast about for some place where they might rest. He was as eager as Gollum to halt today, for in sunlight upon these bare plains they would be readily visible to any watcher within two leagues. Furthermore, though he strove to keep any sign of it from his watchful prisoner, his exhaustion was mounting. The steady pace he was able to keep across these gentle plains had done much to warm his limbs, but it was wearing nonetheless upon his fortitude. As the stars rolled above him, hauling the lodestone of time towards the dawn, his thoughts began to turn covetously towards sleep.

He had fond hopes that he would be able to sleep again this day. Gollum's obduracy, it seemed, had been quenched in Anduin's frigid eddies. He had not made any move to escape; despite the unconscionable opportunity he had been allowed. He had done nothing to press his advantage while the Ranger had slept. And now he moved quickly and obediently, scrambling on hands and feet through the long dry grasses half a pace ahead of Aragorn's softly treading boots. If he was not broken, he was tamed at last to the point of compliance. However long the road that led to Mirkwood, at least it would be a road free of bitter battles of will.

A nebulous shadow showed itself upon the horizon, blurring the distinction between the substantial dusk of the land and the inky blue void of the star-fields to the west. There was not yet enough light for the sharpest of mortal eyes to pick out any detail, but long experience and a half-forgotten familiarity with these lands told Aragorn that it was a little copse of the sort that clung fast to streams and creek-beds in these rolling grasslands.

'What do you think?' he said, addressing his captive with little hope of a reply. 'Shall we find a place to rest our bones?'

Gollum glared blackly over his shoulder and raised one hand to his mouth, nipping at a tag of loose skin that had once been a blister. He spat out the sliver of desiccated flesh and turned away, scrambling more quickly and forcing Aragorn to lengthen his stride. Weary muscles protested, but the Ranger had to smile. How often had he used the same trick himself when a travelling companion had made some inane or irritating remark?

By the time they drew near to the small cluster of trees the Sun had already ascended halfway over the horizon behind. Aragorn was for a moment affronted, but then he remembered how swiftly she climbed in these lands where there were no mountains and few hills to hinder her. Gollum was already beginning to writhe and whine, wringing his long fingers against his eyes and gnashing his sparsely populated gums. As they reached the first low bushes he scrambled into the shade, tugging insistently upon the rope that bound him.

'Peace,' said Aragorn. 'I would like to move farther in than this, unless you wish to proclaim our presence to every bird and roving fox within two leagues.' He twitched the cord and the yanking ceased. Resentful but subdued, Gollum came inching out into the open.

Not a hundred yards hence, they came to the place that gave life to the sheltering boughs above. A little brook in a sandy bed broadened into a shallow pool that had been made both deeper and more broad by the building of a little stone weir at the mouth of the stream. How long ago this modification had been made Aragorn could not say, but from the wear of the stones and the untouched nature of the surrounding underbrush he could see that this was no longer a place much frequented. Few men now dwelt in these lands, and never had there been a great number of permanent settlements in Eastemnet. The herdsmen of Rohan kept their beasts upon these rolling plains, but they were a restless lot, moving their tents and their folk in an endless circle as they followed the grazing grasses. With winter now upon the land, they would be away to the south: there was little chance of stumbling upon the habitations of men.

Gollum, his eyes glittering with avarice, hurried to the water's edge and peered into the clear, rippling depth of the pool. Recalling previous encounters, Aragorn knew the creature was looking for fish, but he would find none. The little stream was strangely bereft of weeds and plants, though the sand was fine of grain and land about seemed fertile enough.

The Ranger knelt and dipped his fingertips cautiously into the water. It was cold and slow-flowing, until it tumbled raucously over the little dam. Lifting his hand to his face he sniffed at it, but smelled nothing. He touched the tip of his tongue to the wet place on his first finger, but he could taste only the bitter tang of the earth that was ground deep into his skin. The water seemed free of any alkali minerals, and there was no hint of sulphur, and yet river-weeds did not grow here. Uneasily he sat back upon his heels, tracing its upstream pathway until it vanished westward into the trees.

His efforts to find food proving fruitless, Gollum snorted loudly and braced himself against the back, rearing his head to plunge it into the water. With a sharp hiss, Aragorn recoiled, yanking thoughtlessly upon the lead that bound him. Gollum was jerked backward, choking out a shriek of indignation.

'Do not drink the water!' Aragorn cried, scrambling over to his prisoner and coiling his left arm around Gollum's thin chest. Gollum writhed, trying to escape, but the Ranger held fast, one eye ever upon the sharp yellow teeth. 'Do not!'

When Gollum ceased to struggle the Ranger eased his grip. 'There is nothing growing in the water,' he said uneasily. 'Something has rendered it unfit for plants, unfit for fish. There is not even a water-skater to be seen. The stream seems wholesome, but it is not. Something upstream has tainted it; we would be most unwise to drink. I have not sought you these many years and brought you these weary miles to see you poison yourself.' He took the bottle from his belt and held it out to Gollum. 'If you are thirsty, take this.'

Gollum glowered blackly, but took the bottle. He dug out the stopper with his spindly fingers, and quaffed quickly of the tepid fluid inside. Then without troubling to replace the cap he thrust it back into Aragorn's hands. With a tiny twitching of his lips that might have been the beginning of a smile or the first syllable of some recrimination, Aragorn drove the bung back into its hole and hung the vessel once more in its place.

'We will find some other place to rest,' he said, getting to his feet and moving back into the trees so that Gollum was no longer within reach of the stream. 'I do not trust empty waters.'

He expected a fight as he led his captive away, out of the shade and once more into the milky sunlight, but Gollum did not resist. He walked, loping in his usual unbalance gait and rubbing at his throat between strides. Back onto the plain they moved, Aragorn now limping a little. The brief relief of sitting by the stream had brought to light the pain in his right leg and the weary tenderness that plagued his ordinarily tireless feet.

He walked northwards until he came to a place where low, flat stones furnished a ford across the strange little stream. He wondered what evil could have stripped it of its life, yet left no trace within its waters. Some strange devilry far upstream, perhaps – but what? Sauron had no sway in these lands, and to the west from whence the brook flowed there lay only the fields of Rohan and the rivers of Entwash and Isen. The former was held by the lord of the Mark, and the latter watched over by Saruman from his stronghold at Isengard.

At another time and in other company he would have laid aside his present road to investigate. Following that stream westward, to its very root high in the stony crown of Methedras if needs must, he would have discovered the source of the contamination. Then he might have taken some action to remove or remedy it, to restore life to this lonely rill and put right this small wrong that troubled a fair land. Such was his duty as a hidden guardian of the peaceful West, but he had not the leisure for such stewardship now. His duty first and foremost was to his word, and to the grim commitment he had undertaken when first he had set out upon this quest seventeen years ago. He could not now turn from his set course: Gollum had to be delivered safely to Mirkwood. If he chanced again to walk in these lands when under no such obligation, he would explore the cause of this trouble. Until such a time, all that he could do was hope that one little ill was not a mark of a far more grievous wrong.

_lar_

Noontide was near before keen and heavy eyes fixed upon some other sign of shelter. When he discerned what it was, Aragorn quickened his. There in a little hollow of the land sat half a dozen golden domes, their rounded caps twice as high as a man's head. They were themselves a wanderer's friend, for hay-ricks provided shelter from wind and rain and even snow, but he was more interested in the dark mass beyond them. There sat a squat, forlorn-looking hut. Doubtless this was some waystation built by the herdsmen of Rohan, visited at whiles as they made their way across the plains. But there were no herds to be seen, no kine nor any horse nor any hint of human habitation. No smoke rose from the thatched roof, and the skins stretched over the windows showed no sign of light within. The thought of lying down to sleep beneath a roof, safe from watchers and guarded from the wind, gladdened Aragorn's heart. Such places were difficult to find, but there was a curious comfort in passing a night – or indeed an afternoon – in an abandoned building, provided its walls were sturdy and its roof in little danger of collapsing.

Gollum seemed less eager, and he hung back so that Aragorn was obliged to tug at the rope to induce movement. As they descended into the little dell, Aragorn abruptly recognized the source of his prisoner's discomfiture. There was no fire in the cottage, and the wattle-and-daub walls were cracked and in places beginning to crumble, but hanging at the windowsill was a neatly darned apron, and the bucket on the well-wall was sound and watertight. A broom leaned next to the stout wooden door, and the latch-string had been pulled to the inside. Though there were no cattle Aragorn could smell the unmistakable musk of pigs, and somewhere behind one of the hay-ricks a clutch of chickens were gossiping.

The cottage, sorry-looking though it was, was not abandoned.

Aragorn turned to make a hasty retreat, but at that moment the squall of an indignant infant came from within the house and he heard the telltale shriek of brittle leather hinges. There was no time to flee, and so he bolted for the nearest haystack, burrowing carefully into the straw on the side furthest from the house and reeling his prisoner after him. Gollum, who ordinarily scorned close contact with his captor, seemed to find the prospect of a screaming child more horrible by far. He came without resistance and dug his way so far into the hay that Aragorn lost sight of him.

The door thumped against the wall, and a woman's voice was heard, scolding anxiously in the tongue of the Rohirrim. Long years had passed since last Aragorn had heard such syllables, and his ear was slow to adjust, but as remembrance seeped in he realized she was upbraiding a child.

'… sleeps little enough without you prodding at him! Get out with you and leave me be! Annis! Go and mind your brother.'

From within a muffled, petulant little voice protested; 'But Mamma, it's cold outside!'

'Never mind that,' the woman retorted, raising her voice to be heard over the infant's lusty sobs. 'I can't put the baby to bed with Osbehrt underfoot. Wrap up in my shawl and mind him.'

She sounded near to tears herself, and it seemed the girl was aware of it, for she said softly, 'Yes, Mamma.' A moment later the door closed gently and Aragorn heard her say, doubtless addressing the unlucky Osberht in a solemn and most instructional tone, 'You mustn't prod Baby. Baby is just like a little piggy: if you prod him he will squeal, and Mamma can't bear it.'

Osberht mumbled something in the contrite jargon of a child who has not yet mastered words sufficient to express his feelings.

'And take your fingers out of your mouth,' his sister scolded superciliously. 'You sound like a little pig yourself.'

' 'M sorry, Anni,' said the little boy. 'Play with me?'

Aragorn pursed his lips, wishing that he had taken the time to dig himself deeper into the hay. He was behind the stack furthest from the cottage, but two energetic youngsters could cover such a distance in a matter of moments. That Gollum was well out of sight was a small comfort, but a strange dark-haired wild man dressed in outlandish rags and carrying a long naked knife would garner suspicion enough in these lands. Though he could easily escape a brace of children they had a mother – and like as not a father – nearby. Aragorn did not relish the thought of a confrontation with an angry husbandman or his stalwart wife: the Rohirrim were a hardy lot, and his knowledge of their ways and their tongue would not be sufficient to extricate him and his prisoner without explanations he could not offer.

Yet it seemed the little boy's notion of play did not involve running or exploration. After an interval of silence, he heard the child lisping out his numbers. 'One. Two. Three. Six.'

'Four,' Annis told him. 'One, two, three, _four_.'

'There's four. There's six. There's one,' the boy said. This time the girl did not trouble to correct him, and he went on. 'There's nine. There's seven. There's six. There's six.'

He seemed to have a particular affinity for six.

Aragorn listened for a while, and his head grew heavy. He let it bob down so that his chin rested upon his chest and the hay drooped down over his eyes. He longed to stretch out his aching legs, but such a noise would attract undue attention. So he sat there, huddled awkwardly in the hay-rick, half-dozing as Osberht continued his counting.

'There's one. There's two. There's five. There's six. There's eight. There's six.'

After a while, his sister sighed. 'I'm cold,' she said. 'I wonder if Baby's asleep yet.' There came the unmistakable sound of small bare feet rustling in the grass. 'I'm going to see the chickens.'

'There's four,' Osberht said happily.

'Yes, there's four,' agreed Annis with a tired sigh. Despite his predicament Aragorn felt a warm hint of amusement. There were some things in the world that remained the same, wherever he wandered and whoever he met. A sister's patient tolerance of her younger brother was one of those things. He supposed that if he were ever so fortunate as to have children of his own, they would behave just the same as these two. Save of course, a prideful little voice hissed in his heart, that _his_ son would know all of his numbers in the proper sequence.

He heard the girl move off, doubtless towards the henhouse. Osberht continued his contented counting. Somewhere deep in the hay, Gollum was breathing through his nose.

The straw was warm and the children were no immediate threat. Aragorn closed his eyes and let his mind slip away, clinging tenuously to the last thread of consciousness despite the intolerable urge to sleep. He could not give himself over to slumber however he might crave it. Instead he let his thoughts depart, swaying to the rhythm of his beating heart, into the realm of memory where dwelt still the impetuous young man who had come down from the nameless North into the green fields of the Riddermark.

He had stood before the gates of Edoras eager and filled with the vainglory of youth, but the initial flush of pride and the excitement of his first lone journey into distant lands were swift to fade. Waking from the pleasant dream of independence he had found himself, isolated and very much alone, in a strange country filled with unfamiliar folk who spoke a tongue that despite his extensive education in the languages of the West he had never had occasion to learn. Having been an articulate child and an equally erudite young Ranger, it had proved quite a shock to find himself suddenly incapable of expressing his smallest need. While some of the Rohirrim spoke the Common Tongue of the West, such folk tended to belong to the more prosperous classes: merchants who traded with the people of Gondor; men of learning and profession; and of course anyone closely associated with the court of Thengel, who had dwelt for many years in exile in Minas Tirith and who had returned with a bride from among the Dúnedain. These people, though courteous enough, had little cause for discourse with a foreign youth of unproved mettle serving as a soldier of fortune in the meanest ranks of the king's men.

For the most part his early dealings with the Rohirrim were with soldiers and labourers, like himself of lowly estate. Unlearned in Westron and impatient with his ineptitude in their own language, they had proved reticent teachers. In the end Aragorn's tenacity and innate gift for tongues had rendered him fluent, but the lesson in humility that had come with those early months of inarticulate helplessness had left its mark. He had learned a patience for those who struggled to express themselves in even the simplest of terms, and that patience had remained with him through all the long years since. It was, he reflected with some irony, that very same patience that in recent days had been stretched to its very limits by his silent and impassive companion.

The heavy, rotund syllables that tripped so easily from the tongue of the counting boy nearby brought a fond flicker of remembrance to Aragorn's eyes. He remembered his initial amazement at the rich, deep quality of the sounds that issued from the throats of the children of Rohan. Such resonating vowels seemed to fill their small mouths beyond reasonable capacity. In the days of Thengel's reign Edoras had been filled with children: merry-eyed and contented, flaxen-haired and bright-eyed. And westward, beyond the cold waters of the Entwash, the golden roof of the Meduseld still shone at sunset and the young of the Mark still laughed while he and the errantries of his youth were long forgotten by their grandsires.

It was a bittersweet taste of the draught of the Eldar, this knowledge that those with whom he had ridden as brothers in arms were now old men in their dotage while he, weary and worn but still filled with the vigour of his manhood, laboured ever in the timeless fight. Strange it was, to think that he remembered those now aged or dead as young men in the green summer of life. From Gandalf he knew that Thengel's son still reigned in Rohan, but he would now be in his sixty-ninth year – unrecognizable to one who had known him as a boy of fourteen summers.

Gollum's breathing could no longer be heard.

The unwanted thought tore through Aragorn's reverie, and his pulse quickened. The moment of dismay was allayed by a waspish intake of air, scarcely audible through the wall of hay. In the next beat however, the horror returned as Aragorn realized what had caused his prisoner to fall so abruptly silent.

Not ten feet away, standing pigeon-toed with two grubby fingers in his mouth, stood what could only be Osbehrt. He was a tiny child, surely not yet three years old. His tousled hair and his untidy tunic attested to his age and the acquiescence of an overtaxed mother to the inevitable disarray of childhood. Though perhaps not presentable he appeared to be well-fed, and his wide eyes were enormous in his plump little face. In other circumstances this picture of innocent astonishment would have warmed Aragorn's heart, but the great staring orbs and the thunderstruck expression were both directed at him: the intruder half-buried in the hay rick.

It was strange that, after all he had suffered and survived in recent weeks, he found himself uncertain how he might cope with this small antagonist. If he moved or spoke, it seemed likely that the boy would scream. If he did nothing, surely Osbehrt would recover his senses in a moment or two, and go running off to fetch his sister and his mother. He could not run, and his perfunctory attempt at hiding had obviously failed. At a loss as to how he might extricate himself, and mindful of his disheveled and largely threatening appearance, Aragorn did the one thing he felt able to attempt. He smiled.

It was not so difficult as he would have supposed. The boy was an endearing spectacle with his small bare feet and his downy hair. In almost any other circumstance his countenance of bewilderment would have been quite comical. And through all the trials and travails of his long life, Aragorn had retained the talent of producing, when his cares allowed him some respite, a truly disarming smile.

To those truths that remained constant in every land Aragorn decided to add this: that children who had not yet achieved the age of suspicion were not so easily swayed as their elders when it came to judgment on the basis of dress or cleanliness. His unexpected presence had startled the boy, but his unkempt and begrimed appearance weighed little against his expression. Instinctively the boy reciprocated, turning up the corners of his little bow mouth so quickly that his hooked fingers quite disfigured his lower lip. It was seemingly every bit as uncomfortable as it seemed, for he promptly loosed his hold on his jaw and let his arm fall aside. Then he bent at waist and knees, leaning forward in a classic pose of babyhood with his hands cupped over his knees. From thence he sprung forward in a bounding hop, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping his hands joyously.

Aragorn's smile widened, and he was just about to speak to the boy when an irate young voice cut through the winter air.

'Osberht? Where are you? Come here at once!'

Annis was near at hand, apparently unable to see her little charge. Osberht's head shot to the side like a hunting-hound mustering to the horn. 'Here, Anni!' he called.

'No!' Aragorn hissed. He might be able to endear himself to a babe of two years, but an astute girl of six or seven was another matter. Osberht looked at him, startled, and Aragorn realized that in his haste to quiet the child he had cried out in the wrong tongue. 'Go on: go to her,' he whispered, this time in the language of Rohan. 'Don't keep your sister waiting.'

Osberht nodded sagely, and charged off with his short legs flying. 'Here I am, Anni,' he said happily as he trundled out of sight.

'You know you're not meant to go past the haystacks!' Annis scolded. She was very near: twenty feet a most. Aragorn held his breath, bracing himself against imminent discovery. 'Naughty boy! What were you doing over there?'

'Looking at the man,' Osbehrt said enthusiastically.

'What man?' Aragorn could almost hear the narrowing of her eyes and the skeptical frown as it spread across her lips.

'The man in the hay. He's my friend.'

Annis sighed in exasperation. 'There's no man in the hay. There are only _mice_ in the hay. You saw a mouse.'

Blessed was the cynicism of an older sister. Osberht, however, did share the Ranger's desire to have his tale dismissed. 'No, it's a _man_!' he said firmly. 'A man with black whiskers.'

Annis stifled a giggle. 'All right, then; it was a man,' she said condescendingly. 'With black whiskers.'

Osberht was young and innocent, but he knew when he was being patronized. 'It is too a man! Come and see!'

Aragorn's mouth went dry. It was absurd, even funny, that after escaping orcs and spiders and even the tender ministrations of the Nazûl he was about to be caught and waylaid by a little girl. In his present situation however, when all he wanted was an expeditious escape, he was in no fit state to appreciate it.

'Come on, Anni! Come see the man.' The strain in Osberht's voice told the Ranger that he was hauling on his sister's arm. As it turned out, this was a tactical error on the part of the boy, for older sisters did not take kindly to overly forceful brothers. A moment later Aragorn could hear their padding feet as she marched him back towards the house.

'You're not allowed to go past the haystacks!' she admonished with all the passionate vehemence of one child's authority over another. 'Mamma will be most unhappy!'

There was a groan of leather and the cottage door swung closed behind the children. Through the waxed linen stretched over the window of the house came the unhappy squawk of a baby as Osberht exclaimed eagerly, 'Mamma, Mamma, there's a _man_ in the hay!'


	26. Falling Out

**Chapter XXVI: Falling Out**

Aragorn did not pause to listen to Osberht's merry account of their strange meeting. He got one foot underneath himself and turned onto his knees. Facing the place where the length of orc-rope vanished into the hay he hissed with all urgency, 'Come out of there! We have to move.'

Gollum did not emerge. Whether he was afraid of the children, or merely seizing the opportunity to antagonize his captor, he was evidently intending to cling to his hiding-place. There was a certain element of good sense in this proposal, but Aragorn doubted very much that he might join his prisoner and so escape scrutiny. He reached out, intent upon plunging his hands into the hay to fish for his travelling companion. As he did so, however, a little bolt of pain shot up his right arm. The skin drawn taught over the still-swollen bite marks protested the sudden movement, reminding him all too vividly of the dangers of grappling with Gollum.

Yet he could hear the boy protesting over his sister's prim remarks about mice with whiskers, insisting that there was a man in the hay and that his mother ought to come out to meet him. There was no time to reason with Gollum; no time to coax him out. Aragorn took hold of the rope that joined him to his captive, and tugged upon it. He tried not to pull too forcefully: a firm pressure would indicate his will just as effectively as a sharp jerk. But Gollum on the other end pulled back, dragging on the rope from his side. Clambering to his feet and bracing his boot firmly against the ground, Aragorn hauled on the cord with all of his strength.

Gollum emerged with a hoarse, piercing shriek. One hand clung to the rope, hauling upon it to keep slack the loop about his neck. The fingers of the other scrabbled against the ground while his spindly legs flailed.

Swift as a diving hawk, Aragorn swooped down and drove a tattered corner of his cloak into Gollum's mouth, silencing the scream – but too late. Inside the cot the little family had gone silent: even the infant had ceased his burbling. The Ranger hooked his good arm around Gollum's chest, using his right hand to keep the makeshift gag in place. Hoisting the thrashing creature off the ground, Aragorn cast about for a route of escape.

The empty plains of Rohan offered little in the way of cover. Indeed, without the hay ricks his only hope of concealment was the little house itself, and in full flight it would not hide him long. He had no chance of vanishing swiftly enough over the distant horizon: even unencumbered by his prisoner such a sprint was beyond his powers. In the moment of desperation, with Gollum writhing and kicking against him, Aragorn took six long, loping strides and cast himself down on the ground behind the sloping shed that served as a henhouse, pinning Gollum beneath his body. A command for stillness fell hollow upon his lips: there was little use and no time.

The inevitable squawk of the leather hinges tore through the air. Aragorn bit down upon his lower lip, an involuntary spasm born of apprehension.

In Gondor the women he had encountered during his years in Ecthelion's service had been delicate; accomplished in the desired pursuits of the privileged: music and writing and all the elaborate works of the needle. He remembered them as competent and gracious hostesses, some scholarly, a spirited few skilled in the arts politic. The daughters and wives of Gondor's lords, they represented a privileged caste and they were as cool and ornamental as the statues that populated the streets of Rath Dínen. They were conduits of great power and influence, but clothed in the fine silks of culture and veiled in carefully coded propriety.

The women of Rohan were cut of a different cloth. They were hale and stout-hearted; as bold as their menfolk, as stubborn as their children, as wild and as lovely as the wind-whipped plains of their homeland. The ladies of the Rohirrim did not remain ensconced in shrines of wealth and position. They tilled the land, they tended to their hearths, and they did what was necessary to safeguard the homes they laboured so faithfully to maintain. In their stolid determination and their unflinching courage they reminded Aragorn of the wives and sisters and mothers of his own people in the North. He could not imagine the determined and fiercely sanguine Andreth, or Fíriel with her longbow and her sinewed arms—or indeed his own mother's mother, who had been the touchstone of his people through grim years uncounted—waiting breathless and frightened inside their isolated cottages while some unknown threat lurked in the wild lands without. No more, therefore, had he expected it of this woman.

'Show yourself!' she commanded, and though there was fear in her voice the defiance was stronger. 'Trespassers are not welcome here, but if you mean no harm I will allow you to depart in peace.'

Gollum shifted beneath him, one bony knee knocking against the hilt of the long knife in his belt, and Aragorn pressed down more firmly against him. He could not but admire the woman's valour: had he wished to overcome her he might easily have done so. But a memory of Thengel's daughters visited him: tawny shield-maidens with strong shoulders and fleet feet, as able in the saddle as their young brother and filled with the same forceful fire. A common vagrant or a starveling footpad would be a poor match for such a woman, especially with her children to protect.

'Show yourself!' she repeated. 'I know you are there: we heard you cry out. Come out or I will come after you.'

It was the mark of a skilled negotiator that he could read from the words of another whether a pledge – or a threat – was bolstered with earnest intent. Aragorn was considered even among the Wise to be a gifted diplomat, and he knew that this woman meant just what she said. He also knew that he had little time to consider his options. She would come after him, and she would find him, and between his bedraggled state and his strange-looking captive he was unlikely to win her trust.

His appearance could not be altered, but at least he might do something about his prisoner. Aragorn hoisted his cloak over his head, bundling it tightly around Gollum so that he was swathed head to foot in the weatherworn wool. Then as swiftly as he could, while the woman made a third demand that he emerge, Aragorn untied the cord about his wrist and looped it through one of the posts that supported the walls of henhouse. Then he climbed onto his feet and stood, slowly and cautiously, stepping out from behind the coop with his arms outstretched in a gesture of surrender.

'Here I am,' he said, keeping his voice soft and free of any intonation that might be perceived to present a threat.

His wild looks were apparently menacing enough: the woman quailed at the sight of him, taking one tremulous step backward. Her hip struck the post of the open door behind her, and abruptly she straightened, a look of stern defiance frosting over the moment of terror. She was thin and wiry, and very young – too young, Aragorn thought, to be the mother of a child as old as Annis. Her hair was twisted back into a brief plait: illness or practicality had led her to shear it shorter than the wont of her countrywomen. She stood with her bare feet planted firmly on the packed earth, and her capable-looking hands gripped a long scythe with a wicked-looking blade. Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn could see the tall hay-ricks: she knew how to use her chosen weapon.

'Who are you? _What _are you?' she demanded.

'Only a traveller, lady,' he answered softly, his tone belying the tension that rippled through his body. He kept his eyes upon her, watchful for any sign that she meant to spring at him. He did not doubt that she could maim him if she wished to: the winter nights had seemingly gone to the whetting of that scythe. 'I mean you no harm. I did not realize that any folk dwelt in this country so early in the year.'

'Well, I'm dwelling here!' snapped the woman. 'And strangers aren't welcome. What do you want? You don't belong in this land.'

'Indeed I do not,' said Aragorn. 'I am travelling north, and do not wish to tarry in Eastemnet, but I was weary and I confess your hay seemed a tempting shelter.'

'That fodder is for our cows, not for wild men to sleep in. And you have no business talking to my boy!'

A faint smile touched Aragorn's lips. 'In that I must beg your forgiveness, lady. He is a darling child, and I have not seen his like in many years.'

The woman's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, and her grip on the scythe-handle loosened enough that a flush of colour returned to her knuckles. 'Yes, he is a darling child,' she said; 'and I promise I will kill you if I must, to protect him.'

'There is no need for that. I will go willingly. Had I known you and your children were here I would never have come down into this dell. I mean no ill to the good folk of the Riddermark, and I seek only safe passage through these lands.' Reason seemed likely to prevail: his words were dissipating some of the panic that lurked behind her brave face. Aragorn allowed himself to relax a little in turn, lowering his hands so that they rested at his sides.

Abruptly the woman grew tense again, jerking the scythe in unequivocal menace. Aragorn realized too late that the motion had drawn undue attention to his knife. With finger and thumb he plucked it from his belt and cast it on the ground. The woman inhaled sharply, torn between alarm and surprise.

'I mean no harm,' Aragorn said again. 'Please. Let me go on my way.'

Before the woman could answer him there was a flurry of woolen skirts and pale, bouncing curls, and a sturdy girl-child bounded out in front of her mother, brandishing a long iron poker.

'Go away!' she commanded viciously. 'Go away before my father comes back and shoots you with his sling!'

The woman seemed torn between horrified astonishment and wild amusement, but Aragorn made a point never to mock the courage of children. 'I will be glad to go away, young mistress, if your mother gives me leave. I am a trespasser on her holding, and I am therefor at her mercy – and yours.'

His level words brought the lady to her senses. 'Annis!' she said sharply, letting one hand loose of the scythe to seize her daughter by the shoulder and push her back into the doorway. 'I told you to mind the baby.'

'I'm minding the baby,' lisped a familiar voice. Osberht appeared on the threshold, his short arms wrapped around a lusty-looking babe of some three months. The boy's back was swayed and his belly thrust out as he trundled beneath the weight of the infant. 'I'm helping,' he said happily.

Mother and sister turned upon him and a moment later the scythe was on the ground as the woman scooped up her child before its well-meaning sibling could drop it. The baby hiccoughed contentedly and the woman smoothed its downy hair. She clucked softly to her child in some nonsensical love-language, before reaching down to rap Osberht's chin with her knuckle.

'You're too small to carry the baby,' she scolded fondly.

'Yes, _much_ too small,' Annis agreed. She was holding the poker like a cooking spoon now, and no longer seemed quite so formidable an opponent.

Not until the woman turned her eyes upon him again did Aragorn realize that he had been smiling at the portrait of domestic serenity before him. He moved his lips slightly in a wordless apology. She hiked the baby up onto her bony hip and cocked her head to one side, studying him with a critical eye.

'Go,' she said. 'I cannot stop you. Next time you pass this way, remember that you are not welcome in our hay.'

'Yes, lady. I will remember,' Aragorn said. 'Thank you.'

The woman clicked her tongue and herded Annis and Osberht into the house. She turned on the stoop, looking him over once more. 'You may fill your skins at our well,' she said. 'The stream is foul: we lost one of our calves this spring. But be sure you replace the cover. Osberht might so easily fall in.'

Aragorn nodded wordlessly, and stood motionless until the woman was inside. He heard her draw the latch, and then there was the grinding sound of a bolt being lowered across the door. Then he took a moment to exhale, gratitude for his escape suffusing his chest like warmth. He bent to retrieve his knife, and then moved towards the wooden pallet that doubtless covered the well. It might have been prudent to check on his captive first, but it was only by the best of fortune that the woman had not inquired whether he was alone. It would not do to court discovery.

Quickly he raised the well-cover. There was a bucket within, hanging from a hook driven deep into the sheer earthen side of the hole. He lowered it deftly, drawing up the full vessel raining clean water. He rinsed his bottles and filled them, then cupped his hand to drink of the cold fluid. Last he bathed his face, before returning the pail to its place and covering the well again. Then tucking his knife into his belt he rose and moved swiftly towards the henhouse. What he saw as he turned made him regret his choice to draw water first.

Gollum had wriggled free of the Ranger's cloak. Though he was still tethered to the coop he had rounded it, and with his nimble fingers had forced the latch on the hen-house door. He was squatting before it now, one leg bracing it so that the fowl could not escape. He was leaning into the crack, his head twisted round and his eyes screwed closed in concentration as his feeling fingers groped inside. The chickens seemed oblivious to his surreptitious quest, for they had not altered their gossiping clucks, but Aragorn realized at once what the wretch intended.

He bolted forward, covering the remaining ground in a bounding leap. Just as he was about to seized the wretch by one bony shoulder, Gollum bared his teeth with a hiss of triumph. Rocking back on his heels he drew out his prize: a small brown egg. His eyes glittered greedily, and he flexed the fingers of his other hand in anticipation. Quick as he could, Aragorn plucked the egg from the creature's fingers while at the same moment hauling back on the halter so that Gollum was robbed of breath before he could cry out his protest.

'You hateful thief!' he snarled, his voice a discordant whisper that was hopefully inaudible within the house. Gollum was clawing at the rope, his tongue working furiously as he made a muted attempt to scream. Aragorn twisted the cord more tightly about his wrist. 'Be silent or I will silence you for all time! I will not have you betray us. Do you understand?'

Gollum tried to answer, but he could scarcely breathe. Instead he nodded frenetically. Aragorn released his grip and the prisoner fell back against the wall of the henhouse, gurgling hoarsely and rubbing at his throat. There was an angry red wheal where the rope had cut into it, but Aragorn had no patience for remorse now. He opened the door to the coop and crouched to peer inside. The chickens, indignant, began to ruffle their feathers. Hastily he reached out to settle the egg in the corner, where it would hopefully keep until young Annis came to fetch it. Then he pressed the door closed and turned a smouldering eye on Gollum.

'Chokes us and beats us, precious. Tries to kill us, _gollum_,' he was muttering.

'Be silent!' Aragorn hissed. 'Do you expect me to watch while you rob these good people of their meager victuals? How do you think that woman can feed her children if we take her eggs? How dare you presume your need to be greater than theirs? What—'

He stopped, closing his eyes and inhaling long and deeply through his nostrils. It was purposeless to attempt to impart a lesson in morality on this wretched thing. Gollum was little better than an animal. Although as his captor Aragorn could demand a certain standard of behaviour he had as much chance of inducing him to see the error in his ways as he had of sprouting wings that he might fly them both to Mirkwood.

He opened his eyes with snapping abruptness, and Gollum quailed, casting up an arm to shield his head. Aragorn turned away from him, and his lips tightened in anger. The hateful little beast had broken the latch in his eagerness to open the door.

'I can't leave it like that,' he muttered, more to himself than to his prisoner. 'The land seems empty, but a fox will walk ten miles for the promise of a feathered meal.' He rummaged in his pack and drew out the short length of copper wire. It pained him to forfeit it, for it would have proved invaluable in the building of a snare, but Gollum had left him little alternative. With practiced hands he twisted it into a hook, which he used to secure the door. 'You spiteful, selfish creature,' he said, surveying his quarry in aggrieved disbelief. 'Not a sound as we move off, or the Yellow Face will be the least of your pains.'

Mercifully, Gollum obeyed him. Aragorn gathered up his cloak, secured the rope once more to his wrist, and hastened northward. He drove his captive before him, and he did not look back.

_lar_

Perhaps three miles from the little cot, Aragorn made a sharp detour westward as a fistful of shadows appeared on a hillside to the east: doubtless Osbehrt's father with his cattle. As much as he desired to avoid contact with the man he was glad to have some proof of his existence. It would have been an ill thing to leave that young woman alone in the wild with three children.

He wondered what their story was. They were herdsfolk, obviously, but why then had they not followed their countrymen south with the fertile pastures? The answer seemed absurdly obvious once it occurred to him. Of course a woman in her last weeks of pregnancy could not make a long and uncertain trek to an insecure destination. They had reasoned that it was better to stay here, to pass the winter alone, than to risk wandering the plains with a new babe in the heart of winter.

For the next two leagues while he walked with his craven captive before him, Aragorn found his heart troubled by that thought. If the south lands were not safe for the herdsmen, what trouble rode in Rohan? It had been so long since he had last roamed these lands. Was it possible that there was no longer peace between Gondor and her northerly neighbour?

Thengel and Ecthelion had been near as brothers, but between Denethor and young Théoden stretched almost twenty years' difference in age – and many times that in disparate experience. Alliances between nations were never as simple as the temperaments of their respective leaders, but certainly the friendship between King and Steward in the years of Thorongil had done much to ensure amity between realms. And Denethor, though wise in his way and fervent in his duty to his people, had always lacked a certain knack for diplomacy. Yet surely, Aragorn reassured himself, a little coolness between the house of Mardil and the children of Éorl could not bring about the downfall of an alliance that had stood for centuries.

The possibility was a dreadful one, and in his overtired state Aragorn found it difficult to dwell on anything else. Gollum, silent and understandably resentful, ambled on ahead of him, pausing now and again to gnaw at his wasted fingers and to whimper deep in his throat. When a bracken hedge appeared off to the left, the Ranger decided that it was past time to halt.

Aragorn opened his pack, offering his prisoner one of his precious taproots. Gollum took it grudgingly, but he turned his back so that Aragorn could not watch him devour it. Finding himself too weary even to think of food, Aragorn took a mouthful of the sweet well-water and stretched out on his back with his neck resting on an upraised root. With a last groping check of the knot about his wrist, he let himself slip into shallow slumber.

_lar_

He dreamed, strangely enough, of Osberht. The little boy was running across a broad green field, his short legs pumping with impossible speed as he tried to keep from tumbling forward under the force of his own momentum. He was shouting something, and as he drew near Aragorn recognized the sound of his own name – though it had never been uttered in this land, not even by Gandalf. Osberht was almost upon him when he stumbled, and Aragorn bent to catch him before he could fall. He drew back with an armful of darkness… the child was gone.

Anxious, Aragorn spun on his heels, eyes straining in the blackness that now surrounded him. Dismay flooded his limbs and stole his very breath. How would he explain to the child's mother what had happened?

There was a sound in the darkness.

He could not move, nor could he breathe. The noise was a familiar one, far more familiar now than the sound of his name. Yet he could not place it, that guttural hissing noise like swamp-gas escaping from some deep fissure in the earth, like the primal warning of a cornered serpent, like the inky exhalations of a spider, like the hellish maledictions of the Nazgûl…

The darkness sifted away as if the world of sight were a sinister fog rolling across the night. In disjointed segments that misted his eyes Aragorn realized that he stood in a marsh-land, grey and noxious beneath the light of a dying moon. He could smell the sour sulphurous stench of long decay. The ground beneath his boots shifted and he began to sink. Struggling against the sucking mire, he struggled forward. A willow tree stood in the midst of the swamp, its dead boughs drooping low over the waters. He reached out and caught hold of a fistful of trailing tendrils, hauling himself onto the firmly packed earth amid the tree's roots. Breathless he knelt, panting shallowly into his hands. A willow-bough brushed his ear.

All at once the branches were no longer swaying silently around him. They whipped out like tentacles, seizing hold of his arms, his legs, his body. Ten long wands like fingers twined themselves about his throat – squeezing, gripping, choking. The hissing sound was deafening now, vying with the roar of blood in his ears as Aragorn fought to breathe. He struggled, then lay still as he felt his throat collapsing beneath the pressure of the willow's hands. With his deep reserves of will he ordered himself to awaken, to abandon this dream before it put him to any further discomfort.

And sure enough, the swamp melted away. The tree vanished into a canopy of bracken and the foul odours of the marshes were replaced with the spicy smell of dead grass. The dream was gone, but its two most dreadful aspects remained: the crazed hissing sound, and the inexorable pressure of fingers knotted firmly about his throat.

In the moment before black blotches obscured his sight, Aragorn saw Gollum's pale eyes looming over him, malice and triumph shining within them.


	27. Retribution

_Note: Happy 2011, everybody. Although I didn't meet that end-of-the-year deadline so many readers mentioned, it's my New Year's resolution to update this story at least once a month in spite of Real Life. Here's hoping._

**Chapter XXVII: Retribution**

A noise like the crash of squalling waves upon the cliffs of Anfalas thundered in Aragorn's ears. His sight was obscured, fading rapidly into darkness as the bony fingers dug further into his throat. Frantic, he threw back his head against the ground, but the moment's relief faded swiftly into anguished desperation; he had driven his assailant to tighten his hold. He was vaguely aware of a sharp knee driving into his ribs from above. Sluggishly he surmised that Gollum must be using his other leg to brace himself against the ground.

He knew that he had no time to lavish upon thoughts as slow as chilled treacle. He had scant moments before losing all mastery of himself, and yet he could neither quicken his reasoning nor act upon blind instinct. If Gollum was kneeling upon him, he realized with agonizing sloth, then he had chosen a manoeuvre ill-suited to a small attacker with a heavier victim. He might exploit that, and with that decision made he found he was able to act more quickly than he would have expected. Striking out with his right hand to distract his foe, Aragorn groped with the left for Gollum's ankle.

The creature hissed indignantly as his victim swatted his flank, and his fingers loosened a little. Aragorn was able to haul in a painful ounce of air that burned in his breast and did nothing to restore his sight. At that moment his questing hand at last found purchase on Gollum's wasted leg. He hauled upon it, twisting the limb outward so that Gollum pitched forward in a struggle to compensate without losing his hold. He succeeded: his hands held fast and squeezed still tighter as Gollum rotated his hands outward so that his fingers flanked the Ranger's spine and both thumbs rested squarely in the jugular notch beneath his larynx.

Aragorn's astonishment was amplified almost to giddiness as this change in position allowed his carotid artery to open again. He could feel the bright blood rushing upward once more, and his vision grew marginally clearer. Above him Gollum loomed, emaciated elbows locked for leverage and shoulders hefted almost to his ears. His mouth, a hideous rictus of vengeance, twisted and contorted with wordless utterances of rage and bloody malediction. Like a spectre of horrors long forgotten in Arda he hung there, suspended, as he thrust the force of his whole withered body onto his thumbs.

There was a moan like an oaken branch straining under frost. Then came a deafening crackle that yet seemed scarcely audible through the floodwaters of agony that rippled from the narrow pinion of pressure. Finally with a soft, sickening pop the cartilage gave way, and Aragorn was consumed in torment as his windpipe collapsed.

A thousand times more terrible than the simple sleep of asphyxiation was this strained and desperate death. Aragorn's chest heaved fruitlessly against the vacuum of his lungs that no air could reach. The glands in his jaw burned with a yearning that put to shame all other corporal urges. He could feel his eyes growing wide, straining against their sockets, and in his mouth his tongue began to swell until it spilled out over his lower teeth. The blackness of encroaching oblivion was gone from his eyes now, supplanted by the searing white light of torture unknowable.

Again he tried to breathe. Again he failed. His left leg spasmed. His heel dug into the mulch. The left arm flailed. There was a strange bolt of fire from his right. Gollum had thrust down one foot upon it. The darkness reared up to swallow him.

In that last instant before the irremediable moment of strangulation, Aragorn's wildly scrabbling left hand struck something that pierced it, digging into his palm with an abrupt pain sufficient to penetrate the smothering mask of torment that consumed him. Unable to remember the word for that which he was touching Aragorn seized it nonetheless and raised his arm high, his wrist twitching with pain and desperation but his hand – in a strange sacrificial gesture – held fast.

Gollum twisted like a hound shrinking from an upraised broomstick. He let loose a hoarse shriek of terror and threw his hands up to shield his head. He scrambled away, dragging on the cord that still tethered him to his captor's wrist. The arm fell leaden across the Ranger's chest, and the knife that he had seized embedded itself harmlessly in the earth.

A squealing hiss raked against Aragorn's vocal chords as he dragged in what little air could squeeze through his compromised throat. Then with a bolt of anguish almost as terrible as the first, his windpipe sprung back to its intended position. The spastic gasp as he drew in twin lungfuls of air echoed in his pounding skull. There was a moment of delicious relief, when the burning deep within him eased and the pain elsewhere was lost in the sweet euphoria of the moment, but then the exhaling wind strained against his ravaged neck and his temples began to pound in time to his hammering heart.

An anxious voice deep within him insisted that he sit up and defend himself, before Gollum's momentary fright passed and he returned to finish what he had begun, but Aragorn could not move. It was all that he could do to lie there, paralyzed with the scourges of his frantic struggle. He breathed again, more shallowly this time and not without suffering. His jaw seemed unhinged, and his tongue writhed a little, feebly, before withdrawing into the safety of his mouth. The next breath came in through his nostrils, which of course brought no more relief to his throbbing windpipe. Casting his eyes heavenwards he saw only a strange constellation of varicoloured blotches – his mind was grappling with the myriad pains of the flesh and could not lend attention to the restoration of his sight.

Another breath and his ribs began to ache. Rolling onto his right side, Aragorn managed to get his head onto his right shoulder. He coughed feebly into the dirt. Drawing up his right knee brought a little relief to his aching flanks, and after three more laborious intakes of burning air he was able to blink. That simple act did something to clear his addled eyes: the walls of bracken appeared as vague masses of shadow, and he could make out Gollum's hunched figure, watching him with menacing eyes from some small distance.

He coughed again, this time too forcefully. A stabbing agony shot forth from his neck where Gollum's thumbs had driven into it. Knotting his fists against the pain, Aragorn was compelled to open his hands again when fresh fire lanced through them. His right arm was pinned beneath his aching head, but he lifted his left so that his hand hovered before his eyes. The palm was bright with thin and swiftly running blood: he had cut himself upon the knife. Gritting his teeth against the sting, he took hold of the hilt again and jerked it out of the soft turf. The blade he angled towards Gollum in an obvious threat that was clearly understood: the creature shrank further away, covering his skull with his arms and whining wretchedly to himself.

Thus insured against further aggression, Aragorn squeezed tightly upon the hilt. The simple, quantifiable pain of the little contusion gave him a point of focus, a standard around which to rally his scattered faculties. Pragmatically, too, the gesture was a wise one. The pressure was closing the shallow wound so that it could begin to clot.

Breathing came now without catastrophic urgency, though each hollow gasp burned on its way in and came out amid a strained wheeze of pain. His left hand was numbed now, either because there was no longer any danger or because his body was slipping into shock. Aragorn wiggled his toes against the firmness of his boot-leather and decided that it was not the latter. His eyes were now as sharp as ever, and he fixed them upon Gollum while he took internal stock of himself. His chest ached from within, and his ribs were sore where he could still feel the imprint of Gollum's knee. His trachea had restored itself to its usual position, but it would be some time, he thought, before he could speak or swallow without pain. He seemed remarkably unharmed in other respects, save for the self-inflicted wound upon his hand and a familiar aching in his lower right arm. Gollum, in his attempt to prevent his victim from struggling, had trodden upon the old bite-marks and the healing abscess beneath them.

Aragorn's mouth moved as if to form words of chastisement, but the strain in his throat from even attempting to speak proved more than the effort was worth. Grimacing against the ache in his chest and the spiral of dizziness that danced in his head, he hauled himself up into a sitting position. He raised his right knee and braced himself with his heel. His left hand with the knife rested on his left thigh.

Gollum was watching him with wary hatred, doubtless torn between anger at his failure and terror of the consequences. Aragorn was too battered and exhausted for rage, but he did not doubt that it would come and he was not looking forward to the struggle between the instinct for revenge and the solemn responsibility he had undertaken seventeen years ago to bring the creature safely into custody. He had often been accused by his men in the North – most notably Halbarad, who suffered from no worshipful awe when it came to his Captain – that he was too patient, too merciful, too perfect to be human. The sombre truth of the matter was that the countenance of patience, mercy and perfection was the product of a mighty and constant effort to suppress his more ignoble drives and to put forward in himself only those qualities that were best. He was endowed in his own measure with the choler of his race, and although after long years of practice he was most often able to rein in the wild horses of his temper the struggle was seldom without peril and at times took every filament of his will.

Now, at least, weariness prevented him from taking any action that he might latter regret. He concentrated on taking steady, gentle breaths that did not overtax his outraged windpipe. At length the manifold pains throughout his body settled into dull, persistent aches that would dog his steps for many leagues to come. Grimly he realized the there was an evil headache setting in, doubtless in equal part the fruit of the near-asphyxiation and the incompressible magnitude of the challenge still before him.

Nevertheless, he had business to attend to. A carefully measured response to this treacherous attempt at murder was required. As much as he might wish to exact vengeance for his own hurts, his duties as a jailer demanded a stern but not wantonly cruel punishment. He did not know if Gollum was capable of understanding justice, but even if he was not Aragorn did. His own self-worth was greater in value than the respect of any prisoner, and he would not sacrifice it for a moment's bloodlust. Besides, from a purely practical viewpoint, they had a long road yet to travel. He could not carry Gollum on his back all the way to Mirkwood, and so he needed to ensure at least a rudimentary level of cooperation.

He considered the situation carefully before attempting to move. What had worked before would surely work again: deprivation – and a ducking in Anduin – had curbed Gollum's hateful impulses for a spell at least. He would try the same now. His right arm was stiff, and there were fresh patches of wetness soaking through his sleeve, but he could attend to that hurt once his captive was secured. Ignoring the tendrils of pain that crept into his elbow and up towards his shoulder as he worked, he tugged his cloak out from under him. It was a wrench to do so, but he tore loose another strip of wool and with his knife reduced it to useable strips. It was the time for a wry comment about what tiny remnant of the garment would remain when he reached his destination, but his aching throat curbed his sharp tongue.

He shaped the gag carefully this time, wrapping one piece of cloth around the other. There was no need to cause the creature excessive discomfort; what he had in mind for Gollum's hands would be punishment enough. He reduced the remaining strips to narrow lengths of binding cloth, and then set aside his knife.

Had it not been for the tether between them he never would have closed the distance between himself and his captive. Gollum writhed and wailed, but Aragorn was swift and strong and angry. Soon the piercing cries were muffled behind the wool, the gag tied as tightly as the Ranger could make it without throttling the wretch. He had lashed Gollum's bony wrists together, and now he set to work with the ribbons of cloth.

Because of the need for haste it was not expedient to bind Gollum's hands behind his back. The creature used his arms as he walked – if walking it could be called. Yet if Aragorn left his fingers free and before him, even with his wrists joined, there was a risk that he would try once again to strangle his captor. So he set about wrapping the wizened hands in layer after layer of cloth so that the fingers were all encased in a sort of tight mitten, immobilized against one another in their shroud. When this was done he anchored the thumbs against them too, wrapping and wrapping until from wrist to tips Gollum's hands were wrapped entirely in cloth. Carefully Aragorn pinched the very end of one finger to be sure that it was not engorged with blood. Satisfied that the bindings were not so tight as to cause stagnation and blood poisoning, he sat back to survey his work.

At some point in the proceedings Gollum had fallen into a horrified silence. Now he squatted before his warden, staring in terrified consternation at the bindings. He shot a look of querying fear at Aragorn, as if to communicate his alarm at this innovation in fetters.

Aragorn licked his lower lip and braced himself. With an effort that brought him more pain than he would have expected, he forced his voice through his battered airways. The resulting sound was hoarse and harsh, so cracked and unpleasant that he would have been ashamed to speak before any other company. Yet the desire to express himself proved worth both the ignominy and the discomfort.

"You should have used the knife," he said.

_lar_

When dusk descended the Ranger drove his captive out of their shelter. Gollum had proved reluctant to move, and so Aragorn had cut himself a stave from the bracken-bushes and used it to prod him along. He drove his prisoner before him now, the stick a constant reminder to press on. Gollum's gait was more uneven than ever before, for he could not splay his palms for support. Yet he was moving and the Ranger moved with him while the night deepened around them and Eastemnet vanished into darkness.

While he walked Aragorn considered the ramifications of the day's events. Clearly he had become complacent, trusting his prisoner's current standards of behaviour and stopping to rest without ensuring that he was properly secured. More troublesome still was the fact that he had allowed himself to slip into so deep a slumber that he did not awaken at the first intimation of a threat. Worse, he knew that "allow" was not the right verb to describe what had happened. He had had little choice in the matter: his body, long robbed of the deep and restorative sleep that even his hardy mind craved from time to time, had overcome both instinct and good sense. So worn down was he by this road that the need for sleep had overpowered his predisposition to self-preservation. It could not be allowed to happen again.

It could not be allowed to happen again, and yet it would. He had been on the road with his captive for more than a fortnight, and he had not even come within sight of the Hithaeglir. The road he had chosen was safer, no doubt, than the path that led by the doorstep of the Nazgûl, but it was almost exponentially longer. Sooner or later he had to sleep, and deeply. Sooner or later, Gollum would have another chance to attempt assassination.

Far away a hunting owl cried. Aragorn's stomach wrenched unpleasantly. Only yesterday, his primary concern had been securing some game to feed them both. Now that goal seemed almost absurd in its simplicity. Yet soon he would have to hunt: the diet of winter roots would not sustain him long on the road that lay ahead, and his hoarded stash was dwindling.

A sudden and profound weariness came upon him at that thought. Was it not enough to travel this unending road, accompanied only by a creature bent on murdering him in his sleep? Why did he also have to struggle even to meet the bare essentials of survival? Could not fortune dispense some little aid to speed him on his path?

Yet he knew no aid would come. This was the road he had chosen, and it was the road that he must walk. The will must be strong, though the flesh might fail. Long years ago, when he was still too young and innocent to fully comprehend the ramifications of his choice, he had set himself upon this path. Whether it ended in triumph or oblivion, his destiny was fixed. He must continue to walk, although he walked in darkness, until he could walk no more. And then, he thought sardonically, he would crawl – until his hands were bruised and tattered and his knees bled. There was no turning back, no wayside inn upon the interminable path of life. He had to walk on.

And on, on, on into the night while the plains of Rohan rolled by in shadow around him, all the time driving his prisoner before him into the never-ending uncertainty ahead.


	28. Strange Eyes

**Chapter XXVIII: Strange Eyes**

Before dawn Aragorn was obliged to halt, for weariness weighed upon every limb and the ache in his head was now a pounding chorus of agony. There was little cover to be had, so he herded his prisoner into a leeward hollow in the land and crouched next to him – too close for comfort but near enough to seize him if the need arose. Aragorn took a little water, and it seared in his bruised throat. He longed for sleep but he did not dare to indulge that yearning. Instead he drew up his knees, folding his arms over them so that he might rest his chin. This position put a strain upon his aching neck and so he turned his head so that his right cheek leaned upon his forearm. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on Gollum, refusing to allow his mind to wander lest rambling thoughts should weaken the threatening fire within them.

Sitting thus amid the grasses of Rohan he watched as the darkness faded into twilight and the sky grew grey with the coming of the dawn. The Sun rose over the plains, clad in the iridescent ribbons of varicoloured clouds. Aragorn let his stare deviate from his prisoner to drink in the glorious and half-forgotten sight. Moving westward with desperate haste he had not taken the time to thus observe the beauty of daybreak in all the days since emerging from beneath the Shadow. It was a heartening sight, a sustaining sight. Chances ill and good befell him and fortune's vagaries more often than not left him battered and weary, and yet through it all the great celestial travellers trod their timeless paths above him. That at least was unending, unchangeable, beyond the scope of his own small part in the history of Ëa to thwart or alter. He found comfort in that.

Comfort, and the will to continue with rest or without it. He got to his feet, and although Gollum writhed and struggled he began to walk. When his prisoner quailed Aragorn prodded him with his rough-hewn staff. Cutting path almost due West, the Ranger struck out over the plains again. After a while the ache in his legs settled into the dogged rhythm of his stride, and though his pharynx still burned and his head still throbbed both pains were bearable. The tightness in his belly troubled him little now, for though his innards cried out to be fed his mouth was filled with the sour taste of bile and his bruised throat stung at the thought of swallowing.

They made good progress that morning, despite Gollum's recalcitrance. Aragorn wondered what thoughts were cycling through the creature's vicious little mind as he loped awkwardly forward with the halter around his neck and the stick at his back. Doubtless he realized that his treachery warranted stauncher punishment than he had received, and the Ranger wondered if the wretch would view that disparity as evidence of weakness. Hobbled as he was there was no doubt that he was suffering discomfort commensurate to that he had inflicted – but not to that he had intended to inflict. Yet there was no room in this precarious balance of justice and expediency to punish his aims; only actions could be addressed. The truth was that Gollum's attempt upon his life had been thwarted, and a cool contempt for failure was the only suitable response.

Still, by noon Aragorn decided that his captive had suffered long enough. It was clearly an excruciating undertaking for the creature to move beneath the light of the sun, even filtered as it was by the thin clouds overhead. When a copse of alder trees cropped up upon the horizon the Ranger made straight for it.

He did not unbind Gollum's hands, for he had no wish to court further sedition, but he let the creature find his own shade. Gollum squatted in the underbrush, contorting his arms in a vain attempt to loose his melded limbs. Aragorn watched without pity; resentment still burned in his breast and though it did not become a noble heart he could not entirely quash it. He knelt near the bush that almost concealed his prisoner and kneaded his thigh with the knuckles of his left hand. The spider-wound still ached after exertion. He wondered absently if there had been some poison upon the great clawed foot that was preventing timely healing. If there had been, he decided, he would have succumbed to that hurt many leagues behind.

Gollum went suddenly still, his arms falling into his lap and his neck straightening abruptly. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes, and a greedy caste to his posture. The sudden change startled Aragorn and he held his breath, listening.

When he realized what his prisoner had heard, he felt a sour twinge of irritation. Ordinarily he would have been just as quick to notice the interloper so near their little shelter, particularly in his present state of deprivation. Quickly he loosed the knot around his wrist, tethering Gollum's lead to a low-hanging branch. He doubted that the wretch could go far in the time this enterprise would take, but he was not prepared to risk it.

Unencumbered by his captive Aragorn moved forward, creeping low to the ground until he reached the edge of the underbrush. There, in the long grass at the very border of the plain through which he had come striding, he spied the source of the sound he had heard. Squat and plump, its drab feathers glossy and well-tended, the partridge was pecking at the soft earth. Now and again it made a low trilling noise of victory as it caught up some tasty grass-seed. Intent upon its meal it did not hear the Ranger inching up behind it. Yet his shadow stole at last into its field of vision and the round bird ruffled its feathers, short wings arching out from its back – too late. Aragorn's fingers closed about its round little body and even as it began to writhe against his grip he flicked his right wrist and wrung its neck.

Instantly the bird was nothing but a limp weight in his hands, and a grim grin of victory touched Aragorn's lips. He had at last secured useful—rather than hindersome—game.

He retreated into the shelter of the trees, where he found Gollum lying on his back with his feet in the air, attempting to use his toes to yank free the tether. At Aragorn's hard glare he froze, and as the Ranger returned the end of the rope to his wrist Gollum resumed his squatting stance. He watched with malice while his captor gathered kindling and set about laying a fire.

Fire was a risk in the wild, for the smoke might betray a traveller to watchers many miles away, but Aragorn had long practice in taking the proper precautions. He chose his hearth carefully; the hard earth between two broadly spreading roots of a tangled old tree. He cleared away the rotting leaves and the mulch beneath so that it would not smoke. To that same end he chose only the driest fuel, and instead of using grass for tinder he dug out one of his precious linen rags and shredded it. When the little fire was burning merrily he sat cross-legged beside it, intent on plucking his breakfast.

The warmth of the flames upon his hands and face was a strange and welcome sensation. He had not dared to risk a fire since that terrible day in the heart of the Emyn Muil when he had been driven to it by the need for hot water. It seemed an age ago, those days of fever and disorientation. Pensively he flexed his right wrist. The wounded flesh strained a little, and so he laid aside the dead bird and pushed up his sleeve. He had not taken a close look at the bites in several days. The marks at his wrist were nothing more than scabs now, and as he probed them one of the dark crusts came loose to reveal the pink new skin beneath.

The other marks, where Gollum had torn deep into the flesh, were red and raw. Where he had debrided the dead skin puckered scars were forming, but near the centre the ragged wounds were still open. Aragorn applied cautious pressure beside one fissure, and a little fluid oozed out – amber-yellow with only a trace of opacity. The infection still lingered somewhere deep in the wound, but it was no longer festering on the cusp of blood-poisoning. It was troubling that the wounds were still open, but there was nothing he could do to remedy that. He carefully drew down his sleeve and curled his hand over his wounded forearm. The steady weight brought only a little pain; he was satisfied that the bites were healing, however slowly.

Aragorn added another dry branch to his fire, which crackled most gratifyingly. Then he settled the bird in his lap and set about the tedious task of dressing it.

Beginning with the downy feathers on the pheasants breast, he plucked tuft after tuft of the copper-grey plumes. Pheasant tasted best if left for a few days to cure after killing: the feathers imparted a particular gamey taste that took a while to settle into the flesh. But Aragorn was not about to carry the thing around for three or four days for the sake of a culinary ideal. The niceties of cooking were all very well when one was safe within four sturdy walls, when one had at one's disposal such luxuries as saucepans, salt, thyme – and _time_. In the wild fresh game was luxury enough, and if it was a little dry or tough or bland it was at least meat caught in free lands and not barely-edible roots scrounged from the soil east of Anduin.

Still as he worked he fancied he could hear Elrohir's laughter as he scolded his inexperienced young travelling companion for his impatience. "We'll sling them across the saddle and let them mellow for a few days, Estel. You don't think they'll taste anything like game fowl tonight, do you?" Even after all these years, it seemed, he was in his own way hasty—though now driven less by enthusiasm and more by long privation.

When the pile of feathers stood nearly as high as lap and the bird lay naked and white before him, Aragorn took up his knife. He removed the waste parts of the bird: the wing-tips with their long flight-feathers, the feet, and the head and neck. Then he sliced open the bird's belly and dug out the offal. The lungs and intestines he cast away, but he removed heart, liver, kidneys and gizzard with care. His mouth was watering painfully now and his eyes were drawn to the rich red disk of the liver.

Almost without thinking he plucked it up and popped it into his mouth. There was a faint tang of blood as he bit down on the flakey organ. It was no larger than peach pit and he swallowed it quickly, but almost at once the maddening craving was gone. Aragorn arched his brow appreciatively. He knew, of course, that the liver was rich with nutrients; and that a body too long deprived of the necessities of life coveted first that which would most expediently satisfy the deficiency. Although it was perhaps a savage thing to feast upon the uncooked organs of one's prey, he had no doubt that he would benefit.

He had no desire to devour the rest of the bird raw, however, and so he skewered the carcass upon a green stick and set about roasting it over the embers. He held the bird low, that it might cook quickly before too much of the fat was melted out of it. Pheasant was a lean bird, and it dried out quickly, but he had neither the means nor the time to stew it.

Behind him, Gollum had been watching with avarice in his eyes while Aragorn dressed the bird. As the mouthwatering scent of roast pheasant began to fill the woods, however, he seemed to lose interest. Grumbling sounds rumbled deep in his throat, though no words could work themselves around the gag. When the Ranger withdrew his spit and set the remaining viscera in the embers to bake, Gollum turned away with a snort of disgust.

Guilt and a faint stirring of pity visited Aragorn briefly. It was a bitter thing to be denied food while nearby another ate. Yet Gollum had earned this punishment, and the necessity of taming him outweighed the laws of generosity. Carefully he turned his back so that at least the creature did not have to watch every mouthful.

One last decision remained: weighing the discomfort of a burned mouth against the time required for the bird to cool. This was a simple choice. Aragorn was ravenous, half-starved from subsisting on roots not meant for man's consumption. With finger and thumb he tore loose a long strip of flesh from the bird's breast, and he sunk his teeth deep into it. There was still some fat in the flesh, and the slick sweetness of it slid across Aragorn's tongue. His hard palate protested the heat, but will and instinct delighted in that first rich mouthful of meat. He scarcely troubled to shred it before swallowing, and that at least he regretted as his bruised gullet protested in agony. He chewed his next portion more carefully, relishing the savoury flavor of the fowl. Perhaps it was neither cured nor cooked to perfection, but to one so long bereft of nourishing food it came near enough.

Eagerly and methodically he ate, stripping every last fragment of meat from a bone before moving on to the next portion. He paused briefly to rake the giblets out of the fire, but even that task did not distract him for long. He denuded the breast and one of the legs before a pleasant feeling of satiety settled in his ribs. He stopped then, using his knife to carve what remained into more manageable morsels. He had no clean cloth in which to wrap them, so he put what he could into his mug and settled the rest among what remained of his roots. He bundled the feathers in a scrap of filthy linen: he could use them to stuff the toes of his boots when he reached colder lands. The remaining organs he ate, for they would not keep long even in these chilly days.

He settled then to enjoy the dying embers of his fire, his back against the tree and his long legs stretched before him. Gollum was lying on his back with both knees crooked, wriggling his arms hopelessly against his bonds. Ugly croaking noises filtered around the wool in his mouth as he struggled.

Aragorn sighed and looked away from the unpleasant sight. He would have expected his strange companion's appearance – and his stench – to grow more tolerable with time. It was irksome to realize that such was not the case. A Ranger could not afford an excessively fastidious nature; grime and perspiration could scarcely be avoided in the wilds. Yet the putrescent stench of this creature was quite outside his experience. Even the foul reeking of the spider-caverns could not compare, for those he had been able to escape, to leave behind. The vile smell of Gollum would dog him for many weeks yet. Even the ducking in Anduin had made little difference.

He tossed the remains of the pheasant on the embers, letting the sharp tang of burning feathers fill his nose. He stared vacantly as the creeping flames rose up to devour the flesh unfit for eating.

When the sun was beginning to swing low above the horizon Aragorn rose and dispersed the traces of the fire. Gollum had at last ceased his wriggling, and at some point in the afternoon had fallen asleep. Aragorn envied him, and had no qualms about nudging him awake with his toe. Letting loose a string of sounds that were surely intended as a litany of curses, Gollum nonetheless started moving without more than the faintest brush of the staff his captor carried.

That night they made good progress, for the clouds had dispersed a little and the light of the moon allowed the Ranger to move with steady conviction. Yet as the silver orb vanished before him and the deep darkness before the dawn set in an uneasiness settled upon Aragorn's heart.

There was something different about these lands. He could feel the firm earth beneath his feet, and hear the whisper of the wild grasses as his boots skimmed through them, and from the feel of the air he knew he was still on the open plain. Yet there was an intangible change in his surroundings, a silence, a stillness such as he had never felt before. It was as if the land itself was slumbering, rapt in the somnolent chords of some ancient rhythm.

As the sky grew grey and the ghostly horizon emerged from the darkness, a great black mass rose up before the travellers. There, betwixt the rolling fields of Rohan and the endless garden of Elbereth, was a forest.

Aragorn knew well its name, and the tales of a timeless presence that dwelt there, eternally mysterious, beneath the trees. There the woods had flourished through all the ages of the world; it was said that they had sprung up from the earth at the behest of Kementári herself, long before the Eldar awoke on the shores of Cuiviénen. Deep within the earth delved their timeless roots, as deep as the Dwarves in their mines had dug. It was a place of power and glory, so said the Elves, to be venerated with that same awe offered to the Endless Ice or the raging Sea or the fields of stars themselves. An ancient place, a savage place, a wondrous place.

And a place, he reflected in an abruptly practical turn of reason, that he did not wish to visit with a recalcitrant prisoner in tow. He had never come so near its borders, for he walked seldom in these lands. Even during his years in the service of Thengel he had not ranged so far, for the folk of Rohan feared this wood as much as the Wise revered it. Perhaps long decades ago, when his eyes were still bright with wonder at the many marvels of the world, he would have found such an opportunity difficult to ignore. Now, sobered by his long wanderings and the knowledge that the awe-filled and the awful were not as different as one might suppose, he knew that this was not the day when he would learn the secrets of Fangorn.

Yet he might use the forest to his advantage. Morning was coming and the cloudless sky promised a bright day. Gollum had moved only under duress the day before, and Aragorn was in no frame of mind for another battle of wills. If they walked in the very eaves of the forest they could cover many more miles today. Continuing his westward way, he reached the tall border-trees even as the first golden light of dawn stained their doughty trunks.

Northward now he walked, the plains still visible over his right shoulder and the deep grey woods a looming presence to his left. At the edge of the forest the undergrowth was sparse. After days on the hard-packed plains the mossy floor of Fangorn was soothing beneath his weary feet. Despite the lingering unease that walked with him beneath the close-woven boughs, Aragorn found himself growing calmer as he moved.

There was a particular scent to a forest that was unlike any other. The damp, musky sweetness of the earth; the spicy memory of the fallen leaves; the deep, rich aroma of living wood. Aragorn drank them in, and in their delicious wholesomeness he almost lost the reek of his travelling companion. He listened to the unfathomable silence around him, the serene slumber of the forest; and upon his tongue he could taste the very life of the woods. It eased his spirit, scrubbing away something of the stain of the marches of Mordor. Here was a place untouched by the Shadow. Here was a place, however dread and mighty in its own right, that Sauron was unable to touch.

Unable to touch _yet_.

As the hours slipped away and night fell Aragorn's discomfiture returned. Although he stopped to eat a little of his bird-flesh and to rest his legs while Gollum fretted on the end of his lead, there was no rest to be had. Agitated though he knew not why, Aragorn moved onward.

The woods, formerly serene, now seemed once more a threatening place. They were filled with knowledge and acrimony. Here the trees had grown through all the long, dark years of Middle-earth. They had beheld the coming of Morgoth, the poisoning of the North, the dark deeds of the Noldor and the treachery of Men. They had watched the waxings and wanings of the lords of Gondor and the kings of Rohan. They had seen cowardice and avarice and sloth and deceit. The trees knew all that was black and wicked in the hearts of mortals, and they stood in judgment over all who dared to tread their borders. The trees bore witness to the weaknesses of Men, and the trees did not forget.

The trees could read the contents of his soul. With their strange eyes they could strip away the façade of patience, the careful appearance of hope, the mask of courage. Fangorn knew that he was clinging to his self-control out of obduracy alone. Fangorn knew how he wished he might slay the troublesome wretch he led and abandon this twisting road for the straight path that led home. Fangorn knew the despair that crept into his heart whenever he thought of the journey before him; the bleakness of the years that stretched ahead in labour and danger without a foreseeable end.

And Fangorn knew his fear. The fear that he would weaken; the horrifying knowledge that someday, somewhere, he would reach the end of his endurance; and the deep, dreadful terror that most often hid itself in the innermost recesses of his heart: that when the time came and he was put to the test he would be found wanting. That after all the years of labour and sacrifice he would fail when most he had need of strength. That he would, at the crucial time, bend beneath the yoke he bore and lay by his burden as he had so often in idleness wished that he might.

All this and more the woods could see, and before their scrutiny he quailed. Swiftly, so swiftly that Gollum was left scrambling to keep pace, Aragorn veered to the right, emerging from the trees like one pursued. Away he moved, now striding, now trotting, until the oppressive knowledge of Fangorn was nothing more than a sombre quietude to the West. Yet the scent of the forest still clung to his boots and his hands and his hair, and as he pressed on his mastery of his thoughts returned to him while above the stars danced their eternal pavane above.


	29. Limlight

_Note: Wow! Three in one month! Look at me go._

**Chapter XXIX: Limlight **

Two days more they walked with Fangorn a dark mass upon their left. It was one thing, Aragorn reflected, to study an old map in the comfort of the library in Rivendell and to consider the mass of a faraway forest. It was quite another to traverse its whole length, step by ponderous step. He pressed on despite his mounting fatigue. Surely there was game in these lands, but he did not pause to seek it out. With care and strict self-control he managed to make four more meals out of his pheasant, eating a little meat with a taproot or two. Yet at last the fowl was gone, and his cache of roots was dwindling, and he was down to his last ounces of water from the little family's well.

If the shortage of provender was a weight upon his mind, at least he was in better straits than his captive. Gollum had shown no signs of repentance in all this time. He was once more refusing to move in the heat of the day, and whenever they halted he expended an hour's energy struggling against his bonds. Although he was surely ravenous and half-mad with thirst, he stalwartly refused Aragorn's daily offer to remove his gag in exchange for assurances of good behaviour. Each day he grew weaker and more haggard, and it was now almost five days since anything had passed his lips, but he remained obdurate and his glassy eyes burned with hatred.

Aragorn could not help but wonder at the creature's temerity. For nigh on three weeks he had been driven forward to an uncertain destination by a stranger many times his equal in size. The captor was armed, the captive was not. The jailor walked free, the prisoner was bound. Gollum's every attempt to extricate himself from the Ranger's clutches had failed, and in his effort to slay his abductor he had been thwarted. Now, deprived once more of fundamental sustenance, he still resisted. Doubtless he expected Aragorn's resolve to weaken. They had each underestimated one another's obduracy, and Aragorn vowed silently that he would not make that mistake again.

Twilight was descending on that second day when the level plains began to slope downward and low-lying brushwood cropped up in the travellers' path. Gollum yelped through his nostrils as his bound hands landed on a loose stone, threatening his balance. Aragorn paused only long enough to let his prisoner recover. There was little time; he was not foolhardy enough to attempt what he must in darkness, nor could he waste an entire night waiting for light.

The river Limlight was little more than a wood-creek in comparison to Anduin's icy breadth, but it still presented something of an obstacle. Aragorn had never had occasion to ford its waters, nor did he know of any traveller who had. As he drew near, measuring the distance to the opposite shore with his eyes, his anxiety eased a little. It was surely not more than two hundred yards to the far bank. In such level country the river was not likely to run very deep, for water always took the path of least resistance. Nevertheless these flatland streams sometimes moved very swiftly beneath deceptively smooth surfaces. It did not do to take wanton risks.

He approached the water's edge with care, eyes scanning both banks for signs of wildlife or watchers. He had caught no intimation of pursuit in all these days, and yet he knew how swiftly the servants of the Enemy could travel overland. There was still a chance that either Morgul or Dol Guldur might be roused to the chase if it came to their ears that the strange _tark _who understood the Black Speech was travelling in the company of Sauron's escaped prisoner – and though Anduin might hold the Nazgûl for a time it could not be relied upon to protect him forever. There were spies on both sides of the Great River now, and it was in such places that they were wont to congregate.

Yet he saw no trace of bird, beast, man or orc, save a scraggly sapling that had at one time given home to a woodpecker. Satisfied, he moved down to the water's edge. Gollum loped on ahead, suddenly eager. When he reached the river's bank he hesitated, looking warily over his shoulder to see if his captor would stop him.

Knowing what his prisoner wished to do, Aragorn turned away. He could not condone this subversion of his deprivation tactic without undermining his authority, but at least he could see to it that the wretch did not perish of thirst before he was quite undone.

While Gollum drank through his gag or his nose – from the unpleasant noises he might well have been doing both – Aragorn began to remove his clothes. The air was sharp with the promise of colder days to come, and he began to shiver as he peeled away the ragged layers. The shoulder-seam of his cote groaned ominously as he hiked it over his head, but he did not hear any threads give way.

Gollum finished glutting himself with water, and set about paddling his long, bony feet in the current. In the blue glow of the evening Aragorn almost fancied that he could see a glimmer of delight in the pale, staring eyes. Likely it was naught but a trick of the light, but he moved a little nearer so as not to wrench upon the rope while he struggled with his boots.

He would have liked to take the opportunity to inspect his feet, but the light was fading fast. Hastily he heaped together his belongings atop what was left of his cloak. Once more he retained what remained of his shirt, for dignity was worth a little discomfort on the far shore.

Aragorn paused briefly to consider the best way of transporting his prisoner. It scarcely seemed necessary to float him across as he had last time – and the memory of the struggle it had taken to subdue his prisoner on Anduin's bank still burned him with chagrin. There would be little swimming required this time, unless he missed his guess, and limited returns did not seem to justify the effort. Instead he closed the gap between himself and his prisoner, and before Gollum had a chance to react seized him by the wrists and ducked his head up between the creature's arms.

Startled, Gollum jerked backwards and tried to yank himself loose, but Aragorn grabbed one bony ankle and swung it against his hip, rising as he did so to his full height. Gollum was dragged with him, wheezing indignantly through his nose. His right leg scrabbled against Aragorn's thigh, the ragged nails grazing the flesh, but then it latched around his other hip and Gollum hitched himself up like a child riding pig-a-back. Aragorn shifted his weight slightly forward so that Gollum settled into a position that was almost comfortable for both of them. He took the creature's bound hands with his left and pulled them forward and away from his throat, thus relieving the pressure on his bruised neck. It was not to his liking to have Gollum's hands so near his jugular again, but the creature was unlikely to find a way to take undue advantage.

There was no more time to waste: dusk was almost upon them. With Gollum's wrists in his left hand and his bundle of clothing and gear in the other, Aragorn set his teeth resolutely and waded out into the river.

The water was cold, colder than Anduin, and it flowed more swiftly than Aragorn had hoped. The currents tugged at his calves as his bare feet sank into the frigid river-mud. Yet Limlight was shallow, at least. Twenty steps he took before the water reached his knees. The next paces were more laborious, for the ring of water about each leg seemed to burn as it drew nearer to his waist and despite Gollum's weight on his back and the hot breath on his neck Aragorn began to shiver. With each step he hoisted his bundle of garments higher, still vainly hoping that he might keep them dry.

When Gollum's feet touched the water he kicked out with his right, sending forth a spray that spattered Aragorn's chest and misted his unshaven chin. An angry admonition tripped to the very tip of the Ranger's tongue, but he bit down upon it. If a little puerile splashing was to be the extent of his burden's mischief in this crossing, he knew he must count himself fortunate indeed.

He took another step, and another. Each one was more laborious, as his legs struggled to move forward through the chill and swift-moving mass that surrounded them. The water was almost to his hip-bones now, and as it brushed Gollum's backside the creature hitched himself higher on Aragorn's back, locking one foot around the opposite ankle to maintain his position. Another step, and Aragorn lifted the parcel of clothing onto his head, settling it there like a washer-woman toting her day's work. His left hand still held Gollum's wrists below his clavicle.

They were almost in midstream now. The far bank was receding swiftly into darkness, but Aragorn could still see where water ended and land began. Staring ahead into the gathering gloom, he was for a moment less attentive than he should have been. His next step sent him shooting downward, and the shock of the impact with the river-bed bolted up his leg and into his chest. Suddenly the water was breast-high, knocking the wind from his chest with its abrupt frigidity.

The weight on his back was lifted somewhat, for Gollum was now partly submerged. He did not take well to this development, and his legs came loose, kicking frantically.

'Be still,' Aragorn wheezed. He drew in a harsh lungful of air and repeated himself more steadily. 'Be still. If you think I am going to let you drown after all the trouble I've taken to bring you this far, you are sorely mistaken.'

Gollum made a strangled hissing sound that shot in two hot columns from his nostrils, and kicked again. This time the motion was not frenetic or startled, but smooth and carefully calculated. Aragorn could feel the drag upon his shoulders easing as Gollum began to float behind him, bony chin driving into the knot of muscle between the Ranger's shoulder blades.

'Of course: the more fool I,' Aragorn muttered, taking another cautious step forward. 'You dwelt so long amid the dark pools under the earth. Surely you learned something of water-travel. Do as you will, then, so long as you do not scuttle us.'

The searing band of cold now severed him in two: his body, beneath the water in the numb warmth of familiarity, and his head and shoulders above it, wracked with chills in the night air. Aragorn's next step dragged upon the soft silt in the river's middle, and the one after that was more of a paddling flutter than a proper stride. The water was over his windpipe now. It tickled his earlobes. Gollum's chin hooked itself over his shoulder while the long bony feet flapped slowly far behind.

Aragorn's grip on the bundle tightened. If only he could keep the crown of his head above water he would have dry clothing on the far shore. The thought of trying to thaw as he had before, drenched and shivering and all but naked, sent a thrill of despair through ribs now aching with the cold. He set his teeth as the water rose to cover his lips, breathing resolutely through his nostrils as he bobbed awkwardly forward. Two feet, three feet, four. His toes were only just brushing the riverbed now. In a moment he would be obliged to start swimming, and then he would have to lower his right arm for balance.

A soft pile of sand gave out beneath him, and Aragorn sank downward. The water surged up over his nose, over his eyes, almost to his brows. He kicked both feet sharply, snapping them past each other, and managed to raise himself high enough to inhale through his nose. Then he sank again, pushing off from the bottom with his toes just before his eyes immersed themselves again.

He was unsure how Gollum was coping, but a strong pulse still thrummed through the sinewy wrists beneath his fingers. Aragorn leaned forward ever so slightly, paddling cautiously with one leg while the other bounced off the river-bed. The bundle on his head was still dry, for he could feel the icy border of wetness bisecting his temples. Obstinate to the last he forced himself further forward. His toe struck something smooth and solid – a stone, no doubt. He used its surface to leverage a little more distance.

The current was dragging him downstream; of that he was aware. Yet he was still moving steadily toward the opposite bank. His next kick ended abruptly as his lead foot drove deep in the sticky sand. He stumbled a little, and then stood straight. The water lapped against his chin, and he allowed himself a triumphant grin. He was past the worst of it now.

He took a few more bobbing strides that were almost swimming-kicks, and then the water was low enough that he could walk properly. Its cold weight was now a comfort, for above the line of the water his wet skin burned with cold. Aragorn kept his shoulders beneath the water, hunching lower with each forward step, until he was no longer walking but moving forward on his knees. This, too, he allowed for a while, but Gollum's feet were grazing the bottom now and between his toes he could feel the shallow-water weeds. Setting his jaw against the cold Aragorn hauled himself to his feet.

A great column of indescribable cold struck him all at once, and with it the weight upon his back. He staggered through the shallows, teeth gritted against the intolerable bite of the icy air. Gollum was a leaden mass hanging from his shoulders. Sharp, tingling pain assailed Aragorn from every quarter and he stumbled, falling to his knees. The bundle he had so carefully protected in the depths fell from off of his head, landing with a soft splatter at the very edge of the water.

Rallying his wits, Aragorn plucked it up and threw it forward onto the bank. Then he dragged himself out of the water and bowed his head, attempting to yank Gollum's arms over it. He was forced to make a second effort, this time using both arms. As soon as he was no longer looped around his captor, the creature scrabbled off to the end of his lead where he curled himself into a ball and settled in to resolute shivering.

Aragorn's fingers were already going numb, and he fumbled with the knots he had made in his cloak. He laid hands upon his tunic and as quickly as he could hauled off his sodden shirt before crawling inside the warm woolen garment.

He had acted quickly enough: only a small patch of his cloak was wet, and the garments within had escaped entirely. In the space of a minute he had his hose and boots where they belonged, and he shook the rest of his belongings out of his cloak before bundling it around him like a blanket. He laced his arms across his chest and lay there for a time, trembling until the shivers that ran up his spine faded to memory and his teeth stopped their clattering. The wool of his tunic was stiff and scratchy against the bare skin beneath, but he could not bring himself to begrudge it. He was warm again.

About a quarter of an hour they rested there. Aragorn wrung the water from his hair and covered his wet head with his hood. He replaced his belt, buckling it to the last notch, and straightened the tops of his hose. He paused briefly over the remains of his shirt, now little more than a wet mass of rags, before twisting it tightly and tucking it into his pack. Then he rummaged through his dwindling stock of roots and dug out a gnarled tuber. It was the last: after this all he had left were a few bulrushes and a brace of parsnips. Determined to enjoy it, he laved it in the cold river-water and cut himself a thin slice. It was starchy and tasteless, save for a faint tang of dirt, but between his teeth it crunched most satisfactorily, and it would settle his stomach.

There came a plaintive sound out of the darkness, and Aragorn hesitated. He could see the pale eyes gleaming perhaps an arm's length away, and he knew that Gollum was watching him.

'I daresay you're hungry,' he said dispassionately. 'Are you ready to behave?'

The eyes bobbed frenetically.

'If I remove your gag, will you bite?'

To the left they moved, then to the right. Left, then right.

'Come nearer, then,' the Ranger said; 'and no more of your mischief.'

Gollum scooted forward. He seemed to be moving with the aid of only one foot, using his bound arms to haul himself towards his captor. The sharp stink of his person, little dulled by the ducking he had received, soured Aragorn's stomach a little. In the gloom he could now make out the shape of the creature's head and the angles of its nose. He reached out slowly, so as not to give alarm, and found the knot that held the cloth in place. Working with his nails, he pried it loose, and he drew back the gag slowly so that he would not strip off the skin beneath.

'I am going to remove the rest,' he said sternly. 'If you bite me, I promise the consequences shall be terrible.'

Gollum made no sound, nor did he move as Aragorn reached for his mouth. With finger and thumb he grabbed hold of the plug of cloth he had driven into the wretch's stinking maw. Slowly he drew it out, careful lest it should snag on one of the sharp, lonely teeth. The rag was so fouled with spittle and slime that he cast it away; there were some things too foul to stockpile even against the desperate need that lay ahead.

Gollum's tongue traced the perimeter of his mouth. Then he made the noise for which he had been named deep within his throat, turned his head, and spat upon the ground.

'Nassty manses,' he muttered. 'Tastes of sweat and death and dark places, precious. Binds us up, _gollum_, tries to drowns us.'

'Never mind that,' Aragorn said. He cut another piece of his bland supper and held it out. 'I cannot trust you, and so I cannot free your hands. Thus you must eat from mine. You are hungry; by all means partake.'

Gollum snorted disdainfully and scurried backward. As he retreated, Aragorn realized that the reason he was using only one foot was that the other was curled around something. It was slender and silvery, and the long prehensile toes were gripping it almost like grasping fingers. Even as his reason was struggling with the recognition of the thing and the improbability of the maneouver that must have been executed in its capture, Gollum raised his leg and arched his back forward, and with the ravenous abandon of one possessed sank his teeth into the underbelly of the fish.

Aragorn was too smitten with astonishment to be the least off-put by the stink of the trout's innards, or indeed the greedy slurping sounds that issued from its ravenous hunter. It scarcely seemed possible, but at some point in their crossing Gollum must have snagged the fish with his feet. Past the mid-stream depths his kicking had ceased, and this must have been the cause. Yet it was utterly baffling.

Gollum went right on eating, sucking in the raw flesh and spitting out scales and fine white bones. Aragorn mastered himself enough that he was able to finish his own dinner, but still he stole surreptitious glances at his resourceful captive. In his wanderings he had witnessed many strange and wondrous things, but this was surely among the most peculiar.

It was not until later, when the shock of the discovery had dimmed a little and the two travelling companions – each in his own way fed – were once again moving northward beneath the night sky, that the full implication of Gollum's surrender struck home. It was no earnest gesture of repentance, nor indeed an admission of the Ranger's authority. Gollum had merely set out to manipulate his captor.

That was to be expected, of course. The creature's wiles were immortalized in song and tale from Erebor to Westfarthing. What was far more disturbing was that Strider the wanderer, leader of Men and counselor of the Wise, had fallen for the trick. He had allowed his judgment to be compromised in the name of pity; a luxury he could not afford. Worse still, he knew why he had done it. Dawn would mark the sixth day since he had lay down to sleep only to awaken with Gollum's feeling fingers locked about his throat. His faculties were failing him; his wits were addled by exhaustion. It would not be much longer before reason abandoned him entirely. Somehow, and soon, he had to find safety enough for sleep.

Yet there was no safety here, and so he pressed northward.


	30. A Lunatic Quest

_Note: Excerpts from "The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon" from __The Adventures of Tom Bombadil__; J.R.R. Tolkien. Excerpt from "The Song of Tin__ú__viel" from "A Knife in the Dark"; __The Fellowship of the Ring_; _J.R.R. Tolkien._

**Chapter XXX: A Lunatic Quest**

Weariness clawed at Aragorn's heart and set a blazing flame behind his eyes. Each leaden step sent echoes of pain into his viscera. Although he had water aplenty, having filled his skins in Limlight's shallows, his mouth was dry and his tongue felt raw against his palate. His very teeth ached.

The night was dissolving into an indifferently grey morning. Soon the air would begin to warm a little, but Aragorn doubted that the chill in his bones would dissipate. At first he had taken it to be a lingering effect of his cold fording, but as the hours wore on it had become obvious that something more insidious was at work; his exhausted body was no longer keeping itself properly heated. He used his right arm to draw his cloak more tightly to his body, but the ragged remains of the heavy wool did nothing to dissipate his discomfort.

Gollum was moving on ahead, now and then glancing back over his shoulder at his stumbling guide. Aragorn could read the malice in his eyes, and it filled him with a dread he had not felt before. The creature was not tamed, not cowed. The creature was waiting, watching, biding his time until another chance arose to dispatch his captor. And this time he would not fail. The Ranger could not walk on forever. Sooner or later he would have to stop, and sleep, and then—

Aragorn shook his head, trying to clear the fog of paranoia that was giving rise to these thoughts. Although it was reasonable to assume that Gollum meant him ill, this mounting terror bordered upon the irrational. He could do without sleep a little longer, and when at last he was forced to succumb he could take precautions to secure his captive. What worried him most was the certain knowledge that when at last he did attempt to rest he would sink into so deep a slumber that he would not be easily roused. In the wild the kind of sleep he needed was an invitation to disaster, and he was now beyond the point at which he could fight it.

For the moment all that he could do was continue to move. While he walked at least he would not sleep, and he had trod harder paths than this with less rest – though not, admittedly, in such dangerous company.

There was no sunrise that day, for the clouds were thick and low. The dull pale light rendered the rolling lands stark and brown with winter's dormancy. Aragorn tried to keep himself occupied by scanning the horizons for anything of note. When that failed, he attempted to let his mind slip away despite his slowly plodding feet, but he found that this slowed him almost to a crawl. Then he tried to sing something, anything– but neither tune nor words could he recall.

In silence he endured, numbly counting each heavy stride. He knew his steps were uneven, inefficient. He could feel the stoop of his shoulders and the pendulous weight of his head. Once he felt a tug upon his wrist as Gollum outstripped his pace and was obliged to halt. While his other senses dulled it seemed that every sound was amplified, intensified. He could hear the rustle of the grasses about his ankles, and the low whistling of the wind, and the slow, dogged beating of his own heart.

There was a curiously muted quality to existence here, in the empty lands where no men dwelt. The air he drew in through his nostrils grew warmer. The light upon his face dimmed. His pains faded, growing ever more distant as if he was wrapped in a shawl of numbness. The pressure behind his temples leeched slowly away. A gentle vacancy settled over his mind, and it seemed the very beating of his heart was slowed and hushed.

The next sensation of which he was aware was a sharp prodding prickle just below his left kneecap. With a harsh, snorting intake of air, Aragorn's body jerked back into the land of the living. His heart raced as he looked wildly about, taking in his surroundings with instinctive wariness.

He had stopped dead in his tracks. Gollum, forced to stop when he reached the end of his lead, had doubled back and was now squatting by the Ranger's boot. His head was cocked to one side like a brooding carrion-fowl, and his hands were extended before him. He had jabbed his bound fingertips against his captor's leg.

Aragorn frowned down at his prisoner. 'Get on with you,' he said, the stern caste he would have liked to take undercut somewhat by the hoarseness of his voice. 'We have many miles to walk, and…' But he could not finish the thought.

With a long, sly sidelong look, Gollum turned and began to lope forward again. Aragorn trundled after him, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his right hand. This had gone too far. He had drifted into the earliest stage of sleep while still on his feet. There was no hope of safe rest, no chance of respite here. Anxiety bit at his throat as he weighed the universally undesirable alternatives before him.

Hot on the heels of worry came anger. He was a dour-handed warrior, a man of many skills and great endurance. Most hardy of his race he was accounted, and yet he could not keep himself awake while he walked. It was unacceptable.

He blinked several times in rapid succession to clear the fog from his eyes. Biting down upon the soft flesh inside the corner of his mouth, he quickened his pace. Swollen feet and aching legs protested this, but he pushed onward into the pain. His course had been too gentle, if it had lulled him to the very cusp of slumber. He could not safely rest here, and he did not trust himself to doze warily as he normally would in hostile climes. Therefore he had to move onward in the vain hope that he would find somewhere he might secure his prisoner and conceal them both from prying eyes.

In the meantime, he had to do something to keep himself alert. He tried once more to recall some song with which to occupy himself. The standard fare eluded him, for his weary mind could not wrap itself around the complex modes and melodies of Elvish songs, nor settle upon more than a three-word phrase of any old ballad of Men. But his thoughts strayed northward, to the house of Elrond in the fair valley of Rivendell, where by the hearth in the great Hall of Fire he had passed more than one merry evening in the company of a sensible old traveller whose store of lusty, simple songs was endless. Groping about in the mire of his addled memory, he hauled out a fragment of verse.

'"_The Man in the Moon_," ' he muttered; ' "_himself… himself came down one night… one night to…" _' He cleared his throat and tried desperately to remember. If he could remember just a little of it then the tune would come back to him, and if he could light upon the melody then the rest would follow. ' "_The Man in the Moon had a silver spoon…_"'

That wasn't it, either. There were two songs, he remembered: one about the raucous goings-on at a peculiar little inn, and another that Bilbo had written later, in what he referred to as his retirement. The spoon belonged to the first song, with a drunken cat and a small dog and a manic heifer. The second song was more lyrical, filled with almost Elvish imagery but still retaining a particular hobbity charm.

'Silver slippers?' Aragorn tried, but that wasn't quite right. The verse was on the very tip of his tongue, and yet he seemed unable to find the words. '_ "The Man in the Moon had silver… silver… and his beard was of silver thread. With…"' _

It was pointless trying to go on, he thought petulantly. He wanted to remember just what it was that the Man in the Moon had. It rhymed with _moon_, of that much he was certain, but it was a strange hobbit-word and it was dodging him like – well, really, not unlike his captive had for so many years.

That comparison made him cross. It was like a cruel riddle: always seeking, never finding; always hunting, never catching; always roaming, never resting; always fighting, never winning; always pressing forward, never gaining any ground.

'Noon,' he muttered. 'Swoon, boon, loon, dune, hewn, croon, festoon…'

Gollum had halted in his tracks and was staring at his captor in disbelief. Aragorn brushed past him, forcing the creature to trot to keep up.

'Rune,' he tried wrathfully; 'harpoon, shoon, buffoon…'

That was it. He remembered now. With a satisfied smirk, he launched into the song, quickening his pace to match the tempo.

_The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,  
and his beard was of silver thread;  
With opals crowned and pearls all bound  
about his girdlestead.  
In his mantle grey he walked one day  
across a shining floor,  
And with crystal key in secrecy  
he opened an ivory door._

Once he had started it was easy to go on. The words tripped out one after another, and though his throat ached from the exertion he continued to sing.

_On a filigree stair of glimmering hair_  
_then lightly down he went,_  
_And merry was he at last to be free_  
_on a mad adventure bent._  
_In diamonds white he had lost delight;_  
_he was tired of his minaret_  
_Of tall moonstone that towered alone_  
_on a lunar mountain set._

_He would dare any peril for ruby and beryl  
to broider his pale attire,  
For new diadems of lustrous gems,  
emerald and sapphire.  
He was lonely too with nothing to do  
but stare at the world of gold  
And heark to the hum that would distantly come  
as gaily round it rolled…_

As he sang Aragorn felt his weariness lifting a little. The rich colours rendered so prettily in song lent lustre to the dull landscape before him, and although the hero's yearning for rich victuals and wine struck something of an uncomfortable chord with his own empty stomach, he felt his lungs filling with clean air with each line. The image of the absent-minded moon-lord tumbling in fishers' nets was an amusing one, filled with hobbit-like whimsy, and he recognized the line about '_the windy Bay of Bel_' as coming from his own tales of far-off lands.

But then the Man in the Moon came to the town, and Aragorn remembered another conversation that Bilbo had worked into his song. He was under the spell of the poetry now, and he could not but continue, yet it was with mounting bitterness that he sang now.

_Not a hearth was made, not a breakfast made,  
and dawn was cold and damp.  
There were ashes for fire, and for grass the mire,  
for the sun a smoking lamp  
In a dim back-street. Not a man did he meed,  
no voice was raised in song;  
There were snores instead, for all folk were abed  
and still would slumber long._

_He knocked as he passed on doors locked fast,  
and called and cried in vain,  
Till he came to an inn that had light within,  
and tapped on a window-pane.  
A drowsy cook gave a surly look,  
and 'What do you want?' said he.  
'I want fire and gold and songs of old  
and red wine flowing free!'_

'_You won't get them here," said the cook with a leer,  
'but you may come inside.  
Silver I lack and silk to my back—  
maybe I'll let you bide'.  
A silver gift the latch to lift,  
a pearl to pass the door;  
For a seat by the cook in the ingle-nook  
it cost him twenty more.  
_

_For hunger or drouth naught passed his mouth  
till he gave both crown and cloak:  
And all that he got, in an earthen pot  
broken and black with smoke,  
Was porridge cold and two days old  
to eat with a wooden spoon.  
For puddings of Yule with plums, poor fool,  
he arrived so much too soon:  
An unwary guest on a lunatic quest  
from the Mountains of the Moon._

The song was gone, and in its wake was bitterness. Dear Bilbo had meant no harm, certainly, when he wove those sentiments into his song, but just at present it was a hard thing to think on such things. Hard was the road that wound north to Mirkwood, and at its end there was little reward. His prize, his recompense for these hardships would be to return to his daily life in the West, where his kind was reviled by those they struggled to protect. Long and lonely was this road, but just as lonely was the next one. So it would continue, year after year until he was stooped with age and too old to go on – or else until he met his death by some mischance, or some unforeseeable change brought to a head the long war he had fought almost from boyhood.

Or perhaps, a change not so unforeseeable. Aragorn's eyes fell upon Gollum, ambling awkwardly beside him. Swiftly he knelt, so swiftly that his captive had no time to react. He dug his fingers into Gollum's shoulder and jostled him.

'What do you know?' he demanded.

The prisoner hissed, whimpering deep in his throat. His eyes at once malicious and frightened, uncomprehending, stared out from their sunken sockets.

'What do you know? Why were you taken prisoner? What did they ask you? How did you escape?'

The questions tripped out one over the other, a cascade of demands bordering upon the unreasonable. But Aragorn was weary beyond reason, and he had to learn something, _anything_, that might make all this suffering worthwhile.

'What did they want to know? What did Sauron's minions ask you?'

At the sound of the Dark Lord's name, Gollum quailed. He cast himself upon the ground, beating the sod with one foot while his arms twisted and contorted in an attempt to hide his head. 'Wicked orcses, hateful manses,' he moaned shrilly. 'Beats us, hurts us precious. Poor, pretty handses, _gollum_.'

'Tell me!' Aragorn snapped, desperation gnawing upon his last ravelled nerves. 'What did they want to know? What have you told them? What do you have to tell them?'

'Hurts us, precious. _Hurts us_!'

'I'll hurt you, you stinking wretch!' Aragorn cried, tightening his hold and shaking Gollum so that the creature's head bobbed. 'Tell me what I want to know: _how did you escape the Dark Tower? How did you get out of Mordor alive_?'

Gollum snapped with his teeth, writhing and wailing incoherently. Warily Aragorn drew back his hand, and as the moment of madness passed he stared in horror at the spectacle before him. Remorse and disgust wrenched his bowels. He knew well the horrors to which a prisoner might be put by even the lesser servants of the Enemy, far from the walls of Barad-dûr and without the ingenious tools of torture hoarded up within. What this craven thing had suffered there he could never know, but well could he imagine. The horror of it lay black upon Gollum's heart, and there was nothing to be gained from forcing him to relive that nightmare. Foam was showing at his cadaverous mouth, and his legs twitched and scrabbled fruitlessly against the ground.

It was useless to interrogate him here, beneath the open sky where the most pertinent questions could not be asked. He would scarcely cooperate with one whom he saw—and rightly so—as an adversary and a jailor, and no answer he might give would alter what must be done. Aragorn sat back on his heels, silent and ashamed of his garish display of senselessness, and waited for the fit to pass.

At last Gollum lapsed into convulsive whimpers, and from thence to shallow hiccoughs. Aragorn removed the bung from his water-bottle and held it out.

'Here. Drink and we will be on our way,' he said. 'There are many leagues yet to travel, and I will not sleep yet.'

Gollum sat up, scowling blackly at his captor. Yet he took the water and swallowed it, and handed back the vessel without undue aggression. When Aragorn rose, he did so also, and onward they went. But the Ranger did not try to sing again.

_lar_

Night fell swiftly across the overcast sky. In the darkness the struggle for wakefulness grew harder. The cold that had worn at his will all day now sank to Aragorn's very marrow. He shivered as he moved, hugging his ribs in a pathetic attempt to warm himself. His jaw ached now from clenching, and his back was a web of prickling pains. Gollum wandered somewhere left of him, now and again tugging on the rope as his pace outstripped that of his escort. Bereft of any other distraction, Aragorn was counting his paces again. He was well past the numbers known to a Man of average education, but in what he reckoned to be almost three hours he had not yet lost his place in the litany.

When a distant glow showed itself on the eastern horizon, he thought at first that it must be the dawn. His eyes, so accustomed to the darkness that he could make out the faint outline of a stone or bush along his path, detected a faint rosy tint away to his right. He turned his face towards it in the numb hope that sunrise might rouse him from his unhappy stupor, but the light vanished. Sighing softly, he turned his face northward once more.

The light returned, a dim redness in his peripheral field. Again he turned his head and again it disappeared. Puzzled and uneasy, Aragorn turned his course a little to his right and moved toward the light.

It grew stronger in the space of perhaps ten minutes; strong enough that he could see it straight on. It was indeed a redness, but it was not upon the horizon as one would expect of the dawn. It hovered in the air, as if a lamp set amid roiling clouds was shining mutely down upon the earth. Aragorn rubbed his eyes, blinking to clear his sight, but the glow remained, faint but unmistakable, in the distance.

Want of sleep, he knew, gave rise to strange imaginings. Yet this, he deemed, was no creation of his faltering intellect. Bewildered, he scrabbled for some reasonable explanation for what he was seeing. Redness in the air, in the clouds, _under_ the clouds, a reflection, a reflection on the underside of the low, heavy haze that had rendered the day so bleak and hollow. Fire.

Fear thrummed in the Ranger's breast. It was a fire, and a large one. He could not see the flame itself, which meant that it was at least five miles away. A fire that cast an echo that could be seen for five miles was a blazing inferno indeed. And who would light such a fire in the wilderness? He was many leagues north of the most remote holdings of Rohan; no man of the Riddermark would set a bonfire here. Seldom enough did Men set fires large enough to light up the sky at several miles' distance, save in signal: that was orc-work.

The dreadful realization that the pursuit he had feared was now near at hand set a tremor in Aragorn's knees. If there were orcs on the west side of Anduin, there was only one thing they might be seeking in this empty territory: the _tark_ and his captive. As he had seen no sign of them until this night, they were evidently gaining—and he could not keep up his present pace much longer, let alone quicken it. Somewhere to the north and east lay the haven of Lothlórien, but there was no surety that he could reach it in time, or even that he could find it. The Golden Wood was a hidden realm, with charms woven about it that made it difficult for even the knowing traveller to find. He had stumbled upon it once long ago, either through happy mischance or some will beyond his own, but he did not know the road. Nor indeed could he be sure of finding succour there, with his unpleasant prisoner in tow and a band of foes upon his heels. Let a man beware who brought evil to the realm of the Galadhrim, for evil was not welcome in that hallowed land.

Yet he could not remain here, staring helplessly at his impending doom. The orcs had built a fire, which meant that they were not moving this night, at least. It was a small enough advantage, but he had to press it. Twitching the rope, he rousted his prisoner. 'Quickly,' he breathed. 'There is no time to waste.'

Awkwardly, painfully, he broke into an ungraceful canter. Muttering something doubtless unpleasant, Gollum ambled after him. After only a few minutes Aragorn's side ached and he was obliged to slow to a walk. The moment the pain faded he ran on again. So he went on, now striding, now trotting, as the night wore on.

_lar_

Morning's grey light found the Ranger struggling to keep pace. He was far beyond exhaustion now, so far that he could no longer keep his back straight. His shoulders were stooped and his spine rounded forward. He could make no pretence of running now, and he alternated between an unsteady stumbling gait and brief moments of stillness when he gripped the aching scar that bisected his right thigh. His breathing was laboured and his thoughts were muddled, and the distant roar of the river was a torment upon his ringing ears.

It took far longer than it should have for him to recognize the sound of rushing water as something inappropriate to his perceived location. Even once he drew that conclusion, he covered another half-mile of uneven terrain before he realized the source of the incongruity. Disoriented perhaps by the lack of sleep, or washed further downstream than he would have thought by Limlight's frigid waters, he had deviated eastward. From atop a rise in the land, he could see away to his right the tangled undergrowth and bare, lonely trees of the vale of Anduin.

Too far gone with weariness to feel any emotion, he was spared both dismay at his loss of direction and terror at the knowledge that he was almost within sight of Dol Guldur. He stood, staring eastward towards the river, with no thought in his mind but a bewildered wonderment. In Gondor there was a children's story about a traveller lost in a wood. No matter what path he took, it twisted and wound and circled back to the same clearing. That was how he felt at this moment: as if all his wandering since crossing the Great River had been fruitless. For here he stood, almost within sight of her banks again, too stupid with fatigue to imagine moving back westward.

Gollum, taking full advantage of the halt, was curled in a ball by Aragorn's boot already snoring faintly. The sound roused the Ranger briefly from his reverie, and he looked down at his captive. His weary legs needed no further invitation to give out from under him, and he sank gently to his knees. Numbly he knelt, his right hand playing absently in the dead grass. The wind was blowing from the north, and it seemed to creep along his scalp amid the trails of grimy hair. Aragorn wanted to scratch at his head to ease the discomfort, but the effort of raising his arm was too much. He plucked at the ground instead, finger and thumb closing on a withered stem of clover. He crushed the blackened head and let the wasted stalk fall to the earth.

In the corner of his eye he saw a leaf dancing in the wind. It looped upward, borne upon the breeze, and rose as if to sail far above him. At the apex of its ascent it stopped, hovering for the briefest of instants in mid-air. Then it fell to earth, landing not far from his crooked knees. Transfixed, Aragorn reached out for the leaf where it fluttered amid the dying grass. It seemed so bright and golden against the brown earth, and as he picked it up he smiled like one inebriated beyond sensibility. He twirled it in his hand, admiring the delicate veins, and he drew it into his lap.

There was a scent as of flowers and spices and spring. It was the scent of happiness, of contentment, of safety. Aragorn's eyes closed and he felt himself drifting off towards the sweet oblivion of slumber. In the darkness behind his eyelids he saw a maiden clad all in white, _and light of stars was in her hair, and in her raiment glimmering_…

And then recognition came to him and he returned to the waking world with a start. The leaf was still clasped in his hand, and Gollum was slumbering insensibly by his boot. The spell was broken, and Aragorn saw that the leaf was dry and dead, its veins a scaffold on which its fragile fibres clung wasted and tenuous. Yet the golden hue was unmistakeable and the scent still lingered on the edge of memory. He looked up, north and westward, and though he could not see the woods he knew they were at hand.

It took his last shreds of will, but Aragorn hauled himself to his feet. When he stopped swaying he nudged at Gollum with the toe of his left boot. The creature awoke with a snort, glaring blackly at him, but Aragorn did not care. Heavily, inelegantly, limping a little, he started forward again. He was not at all sure of his welcome, but he had no other hope. Clutching the dead mallorn-leaf, he hobbled on.


End file.
